


Sun Means The Sky'll Be Blue

by PearlyDewdrops



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hate to Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Old Friends, fake exes, kinda!, the hate to love is very mild tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 91,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11379276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlyDewdrops/pseuds/PearlyDewdrops
Summary: As the only singleton under thirty attending his cousin's five-day wedding, Harry is desperate to find a date, or at least a reason to get people's questions about his love life off his back. So when Louis, Harry's old uni roommate and fellow wedding attendee waltzes back into his life, Harry seizes the opportunity, pretending Louis is his ex-boyfriend and that it's a sore subject not to be mentioned.If it's a little bit closer to the truth than Harry would like, well, he's a master at living in denial.So cue a mess of trudged-up feelings, past misunderstandings, a rekindled summer romance and a whole lot of sexually-charged bickering.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'Movie Loves A Screen' by April Smith and The Great Picture Show.

 

Harry meticulously slides the pads of his fingers across the vinyl sleeve tops, stacked against each other and heaving with stories—old and new, tragic and happy, slow and upbeat—his headphones perched amongst his newly trimmed waves. He cut it short recently—just fancied a change—and it’s already growing back at a rapid pace. (And thank goodness. A little bit longer wouldn’t hurt.)

It’s sunny outside, a warm, yet breezy day, the sun filtering through the windows and gathering up the dust on the wood surfaces in front of the metal racks and stands, and highlighting the dust particles hovering in the somewhat stuffy air of the shop.

He bends his knees slightly, squinting to read a tracklist of a record he picks out, turning it back over to look at the cover, vaguely bopping along to the song playing at a soft volume—‘Leave Me Alone’ by New Order (it’s a classic and Harry can very much relate where his mood is concerned right now), a strand of his floppy, albeit shorter fringe falling into his eyes.

Harry blinks, flicking it out of his vision with a sniff. You’d think he was free of this for a bit, especially after having spent a stupid amount of time earlier on trying to style a hairspray-sticky quiff, his short curls eagerly fighting their way back, as Harry was attempting to appear nonchalant in the steamed-up mirror, pretending he was content with his lot, cheesy grin and all. Smile faltering when he found his hand itched to draw a certain shape in the condensation of the glass...

Yeah. He really needed to get over _that_.

It was verging on pathetic. Years have gone by—when is he going to forget? Harry itches his nose with the back of his knuckles, frowning. Whomever is responsible for the phrase, ‘time heals all wounds’ must have been smoking something seriously optimistic.

The truth is, Harry couldn’t be less satisfied with where he’s at in life at the moment. But there’s no use dwelling on it, is there?

Who wants to hear someone drone on about how shit they feel? No one wants to listen to someone wearing cowboy boots and two pairs of sunglasses on their head sob into their soggy cornflakes about how much he hates his life, or his complaints over his new, shitty flat’s lack of storage space and the neighbours’ questionable noises and his lack of funds and his inability to find, you know, that other _thing_.

Whatever. Even Harry annoys Harry.

They’d tell him to just quit whinging and fucking put up with it, because everyone else has to—as Niall lovingly informed him over drinks last night, at the end of his tether with Harry’s moping.

It’s not like it’s a roaring occasion for Harry either? He hates to moan and whinge. He’d rather cling to optimism and pretty things, than wallow in his own self-pity. (That’s what six vodka soda and limes will do to you.)

He’s been asking for a punch in the balls. (And tragically, that’d be the most action his balls have got in a while.)

He lazily runs a hand through it, missing the length terribly, eyes pausing on Alt-J’s first record—blinding sunbeams and manic grins momentarily invade his thoughts—

Harry shakes it away, diverting his gaze.

Yeah... he misses it. (The hair, that is.) (Nothing else.)

He bites on his lip, continuing to brush his fingertips over the lightly dusted covers as he carries on walking along the stands, drinking in the names, the favourite bands, the memories he has from listening to particular albums during different points in his life, piecing together the soundtrack of his days. He lets out a sigh of relief when the shop starts to play a more upbeat track—some Circa Waves.

It was fun, cutting it all off, and it’s nice not having to worry about keeping the ends out of his eyes when stuck in hefty winds, but he can admit that afterwards, when all his friends had left, he had a ~~big~~ little cry for his lost locks in the bathroom.

(He’s still talking about his hair, alright? Just to clarify. This isn’t a metaphor, or anything.)

Anyway. Real men cry buckets, okay? Especially for those awful, abandoned dog adverts. And for literally any mile stone in his own life. There’s been a few of those Harry hasn’t been able to hold back the tears for. (He cried when he got his first article printed online.) (Okay, so it was just a short few paragraphs demonizing the phrase ‘Man Bun’, but it was a turning point.) (He actually got paid for that.)

What can he say? He’s an emotional person. Harry’s a real crier. And he wears that tag with pride. It’s cool to cry, he doesn’t give a shit what The Cure have to say about it.

But Harry would say he’s got plenty a valid reason to cry.

Twenty-six and let go from yet another lousy retail job isn’t the best news as summer gets underway. And not while all he can do at the moment is fly from place to place in his _head_ (not to anything significant, sadly) as a freelance writer with not much to write about, and not enough credentials to his name. He’ll draft _another_ new idea for a novel, and jot down some melancholy lines of poetry amidst feeding his black coffee habit, increasing consumption of weed, and a remarkable ability to go through at least three boxes of Kleenex in a month.

And it’s not even _Kleenex_ for fuck’s sake, because he can only afford to buy the cheap tissues now that he’s miraculously saved enough money for a deposit and the first two months rent for his shoebox-sized, one-bedroom flat.

Harry needs music to get him through this stressful, piteous time. (And perhaps a new pair of Chelsea boots _. Oh, god,_ does he _want_ another pair.) Which is why he’s wandering the aisles of this record shop he found, both mesmerised and feeling calmed down by the classics in their crisp, plastic wrapping, leaning beside each other for support like they’re all old friends living in the same city, looking for solace and camaraderie and consuming an alarming amount of coffee.

Harry could use some support from them right now. A word or two of encouragement from Stevie the Goddess will do wonders. Since he’s not able to go his own way.

(He’s going fucking _no_ way.)

He tugs on his shirt sleeve—a printed Britney tee—rolled up to his shoulders and held up with safety pins, screwing the heel of his boot down into the carpet as he hums along to Fleetwood Mac and drifts off to a faraway place, away from the disappointment that is his life, maybe lounging on a tropical beach somewhere, the ocean a translucent blue that stretches for miles and keeps his nerves at bay. Needing to cheer himself up with the little things he does have, wanting to snuggle into his bed, huddled up with blankets and fluffy socks, and perhaps shove his face into a cream cheese frosted cake.

(He could murder a Red Velvet.)

Especially now that his sister is married and has just come back from her honeymoon. And of course he’s thrilled for her, but Harry was instantly subjected to their blissfully happy wedding photos as soon as she got one foot in the door, making him more and more aware of the fact he’s nowhere close to settling down and being happy like she is. (Harry’s teenage plans for an early marriage have really been put on the back-burner.)

He pouts at the reminder, can picture his mum’s overjoyed face looking through pictures of Gemma in her beautiful dress, and can hear her unsubtle comments alluding to when exactly Harry will finally find a nice boy and get a fucking mortgage.

A steady job is needed first, Mother.

Harry rolls his eyes as he changes aisle, muttering to himself and not looking where he’s going, resulting in him smacking hard into something solid, an elbow practically winding him as it clocks Harry in the sternum.

He groans with a grimace and screws his eyes shut for a second, clutching at his stomach. “Fuck me.”

“Forward. I’d prefer to know your name first.”

All throbs of pain ebb away as Harry opens his eyes and gapes openly at the stunning man standing in front of him, the next three seconds lasting a lifetime in slow-mo.

He’s all golden skin and mussed hair. A fringe, chaotically styled but it looks so _soft._ Soft and light brown. Golden skin stretches to his tanned stomach, because he has a fucking _crop top_ on—glorious belly button on display, and Harry’s having trouble breathing, eyes hooked on what’s below the black and white, thinly striped top, and over it, printed in a fancy scrawl and actual gold glitter, are the words:

‘GLITTER IS LIFE’.

Harry swallows dryly, the man a few inches shorter than he is and yet he has such a presence, just oozing togetherness. That’s all from _one_ glance in a split second.

Harry’s eyes scan lower, taking in the faded dark denim jacket, rolled up to the elbows, and his painted-on, sinfully-shaped jeans, also rolled up at the ankles, the rose-patterned sneakers on his endearingly small feet. They look very expensive.

When the moment reaches five seconds though, Harry is struck with the overwhelming feeling that this guy is _very_ familiar to him, something climbing speedily up to his brain and telling him he _knows_ this person.

If he could just see his eyes—

The man slips off his pink-shaded aviators and _oh._

Oh. _Fuck._

Harry’s palms start to sweat instantly, a flare of annoyance creeping up Harry’s neck before any other emotion can flicker over his senses. And there’s a lot. A fucking lot of them. (Pesky arousal sure is one.)

Traces and fragments of blurred memories: broad smiles, a hot summer afternoon, black hats thrown haphazardly into the air, long gowns billowing in the wind, drunken bickering and lust-driven stares turning into airy laughter. They downpour inside Harry’s head, flooding to the plane of his wits, quickly followed by the feel of searing kisses, sweaty skin, and breathless gasps.

Harry’s face heats up so fast, he feels light-headed, mentally kicking himself for it.

“Louis?” he barely gets out in a question, even though he _knows_ with absolute certainty, it _is._

It's Louis.

_Louis._

Harry jerkily lowers his headphones and lets them rest behind his neck.

“Harry?” Louis’ tone is coloured in genuine surprise. He smiles at Harry. Wide and full of teeth. The sight twists something unwanted in Harry’s gut.

Harry swallows hard, eyeing him suspiciously.

This is... This is just. Not good. Harry isn't equipped for this right now.

“Yeah,” he says, at a loss of what he’s meant to say now. He clears his throat, uncomfortable tightness threatening to strangle his voice. “It’s been a while, hasn't it?” He tries his best to keep his voice aloof, wanting him to _know._

 _That’s if he even remembers,_ he thinks bitterly.

Harry's voice actually comes out a bit too soft, but Louis has the decency to still look sheepish, smile faltering as he lowers his gaze. “Yeah. Quite _the_ while.” He shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. Harry can’t take his eyes off him. “How, uh... so, um. H-how have you been?” The cool, unaffected manner Louis seemed to radiate before is dissipating at a rapid pace. Harry thinks his golden cheeks may even have a pink hue to them now.

He's blushing.

Harry frowns, shoulders rolling with an indifferent shrug. “Pretty shit, to be honest." He coughs. "No, I mean. I’m all right. I’m good. You?” he forces himself to ask, even if he’s desperate to know the answer. And isn’t that just pitiful.

Something flickers over Louis’ face that Harry can’t identify. “I’m—“ he shrugs too. “Fine. I always am,” he grins. “Can’t keep me down for long.”

Harry nods. “Typical,” he can’t help but mutter quietly. Shit.

“I’m sorry?” Louis frowns, narrowing his eyes at him instantly.

“Nothing.”

“No, go on. You obviously have something to say.”

Harry sighs, exhausted already. “It’s just like you, that’s all. There’s never anything that affects you, is there?”

Oh, my _god_. Someone shut him up.

“What’s— Hang on.” Louis holds up a hand, frowning severely now. “I haven’t spoken to you in like, five years, and this is how it goes now that we’re—”

“Three,” Harry cuts in, fuming.

Louis gapes at him.

Has he actually forgotten the last time? (Alright, so it was a _lot_ briefer of a meeting, but _come on_.)

Louis just shakes his head, a confused crease between his brows.

“Yes. _Three_ years.” Harry folds his arms. “See! This is just like you.” Oh, no. Harry can’t stop the word vomit. “You're always acting like everything you touch is _lucky_ to be touching you, to just be speaking to you, and then you just pretend like absolutely nothing happened afterwards. No, you just get on with your carefree life! Meanwhile the rest of us stumble around trying to pick up the pieces you obliviously leave behind,“ he says a bit too frantically. “You never think about anyone else's feelings. You just—“

He pauses, knowing his cheeks are reddening terribly.

And. Uh oh. He’s projecting here. Years of repressed feelings are bursting to the surface. Rewind. Oh, god. Can they rewind? Did he honestly say all of that out loud? Kill him. Do it now.

Even the girl behind the cash desk is looking at him with raised eyebrows. Harry wants the ground to swallow him whole, embarrassment washing over him.

“What?” Louis almost yells. “What the hell are you on about?” he shrieks, indignant and shrill. “I only said I was _fine_?” Louis blinks at Harry like he’s mad, eyes wide and incredulous. Harry is a bit mad. He’s always been a bit mad around Louis. Old habits definitely do die hard. “What’s so offensive about that? The fuck are you even talking about, Harry?”

Harry fishmouths for a handful of long, painstaking moments, Louis’ eyes still wide and staring at him like _that_ and all Harry can bloody do is let his gaze fall to his bare midriff, smooth and unblemished and so _golden_ , lingering.

“Forget it,” Harry grits out. His heart is beating wildly and Harry worries for its health. He’s fucking mortified, hastily shoving past him to get to the exit of the shop, _hating_ the way his cheeks are so hot and just how affected he feels. Still.

Guilt climbs into his cells. He doesn’t even know what for.

He walks fast.

Even faster when he thinks he hears Louis calling his name.

Shit.

"Why are you always such a disaster?" Harry mutters to himself, hurriedly pacing down the pavement in huge strolls, cheeks still red.

That was nice reunion, then. How fun.

**

Harry mopes for the rest of the evening. (Or secretly mopes, anyway.) (Internally.) (His mum hasn’t batted an eyelid, regardless of his inner turmoil.)

He’s vaguely keeping one eye on an episode of _New Girl_ on TV, the other glancing at the notepad left on the coffee table in front of him, amongst several wedding brochures left of Gemma’s from last year.

Now that there’s another Styles wedding happening in a little over two weeks. His cousin, Matthew.

Hooray.

“This is the list of everyone confirmed for the wedding, yeah?” Harry says as he squints to read the names from over the rim of his large glass of red wine. The worrying list of names begin to tug at his already fragile feelings. He can feel his relaxed resolve rapidly dissipate as he scans further down the list of ticked-off names, crossed in red biro.

Oh, great. Bloody fantastic.

“Yes, love. Why?” His mother shoots him a slightly confused expression.

“These names are, um, they’re all—“

 _Couples,_ Harry thinks with dread.

He groans, dramatically falling backwards on his mum’s sofa, hiding his face with his hands, pouting ever so childishly and kicking his socked feet up into the air a bit.

He hears his mum’s laugh and after a moment, her hands ruffle through his short strands. “What’s up?”

“Mum, they’re all couples!” Harry whines. “Literally. All of these people are with someone. It’ll be humiliating sitting at a table with no date.” He pouts up at her. “I’m going to be the only person under thirty without someone.”

“That’s not true. Tasha won’t have.”

“She’s eighteen months old,” Harry deadpans.

"Exactly. Under thirty." His mother grins. “Oh, Harry. It doesn’t matter. You’ll find someone soon,” she coos, rubbing under his chin.

Jesus. That’s all he hears. _Oh, that’s okay. You’ll find someone_. As if he’s doing something wrong. That there’s something wrong with _him._

“What if I don’t? That shouldn’t matter to anyone. It’s none of their business.” He sits up, frowning. “I swear, if anyone ribs me over this or calls me fucking ‘Bridget—”

“Language,” his mum scolds, shifting her hair clip further up in her brown hair, absently touching one of her hooped earrings.

“Sorry,” Harry grumbles, clutching his glass a little tighter as a flash of an impish smile lights behind his eyelids. (He has no idea why that just happened.) (Anyway.) He huffs regardless. “Just tell everyone to not ask about my love life. _Please_?”

“You know I can’t stop everyone from asking.” Harry continues to pout at her. Mum can never resist this face. His mum sighs, casting him an understanding smile. “Alright. I’ll tell the family to keep the questions away from that particular subject. Though when they’re sloshed, you know I have no control, darling. And as for the rest of them—“

“I know,” Harry laments, shoving his face into the pillow on the headrest.

His mum gives him one more soft ruffle of his hair, and walks back over to what she was doing. Choosing tablecloths or some shit. Shouldn’t Matty be doing this? Or his fiancée?

What’s the betting mum’s only more involved because she reckons she won’t get another chance with Harry? Mum already missed out with Gemma, seeing as she ended up eloping to Tenerife instead. She was crushed when Gemma told her over the phone. She thinks she won’t get to do this with Harry, doesn't she? Or that she’ll have to wait too long, at least. And that stings.

Harry hates everything. He sits up and pours out some more wine, gulping it down quicker than he should, which earns him an unimpressed look from his mum. (Thank god he can walk home. If he had to stay here tonight he’d tear his hair out.)

“Find a date if you’re so bothered about it,” his mum suggests casually, smoothing out the crinkles in her long floral dress with one hand as she uses the other to write something down. “In fact," she says, eyes lit up, "I might know a few possible options. There’s this lovely chap, Sandra’s son—”

“I _can_ find my own dates, mum,” Harry says, curling his knees to his chest, socks sliding on the leather of the sofa with his phone in hand. He begins searching through his contacts because these are desperate times and he needs a bloody date. Maybe there's someone in here he likes that he just hasn't given a chance yet?

After another thirty seconds or so, he gives up. Nope, nothing. He exhales heavily. He _has_ to take a date. He just has to. Or find a reason that will prevent anyone from constantly asking him, _"So where's your boyfriend, then, Harry?"_ Or those stupid people who still don't get it, _"Your girlfriend arriving soon, Harry?_ " (Give him strength.) 

A pair of enticing _blue eyes_ pop back into his head, crinkling in the corners, a tinkling laugh ringing in his ears, soft and gentle and...

No. Nope. Out, out, out. _Get out of my head_ , Harry thinks petulantly, while simultaneously wishing with everything that things were different.

God.

Seeing Louis again today, it was... it’s done something to him. Made his insides and common sense all wonky and unsettled.

The bottom line? Louis still makes Harry’s heart flutter with one glance, amongst over things. Infuriating things. The way he looked in the shop. He was wearing a _crop top_. But he looked the exact same. That impish mischief, that breezy air about him, that knowing smile. It reminded Harry of the way they used to have fun. Beneath it all. Between the tiny cracks and the unsaid words and the subtle touches.

...maybe he _could_?

 ~~Yes?~~ No. Absolutely _not._ ~~~~

No. There’s no way in hell he can ask Louis to go with him to the wedding. Is he mad? The wine has gone right to his head. Louis probably wouldn’t even agree to see him, anyway. Not after that mess earlier. And he’s bound to have changed his phone number by now. (Harry pretends he doesn’t still have Louis’ contact stored on his phone, saved to his SIM.) (That he never deleted.) (No matter how many times his thumb hovered over the delete button.)

He curses himself for even allowing the stupid idea past his sane (wine infused) thoughts. Even if Harry somehow had Louis only pretend to be his date, it wouldn’t work.

And they _can’t_ do that. That’s going to open up a can of worms, considering their sore history. Harry would rather not deal with what that might release. (A mess, probably.) But it was years ago, anyway. He’s over it. He really is. He’s. Over. It. All that comes to mind when Harry thinks of Louis now is... nothing.

It’s a dirty lie but no one has to know.

**

“For the last time, Niall. I am not going to _hire_ a date, okay?”

"Why not?" Niall shrugs. "Just pretend. I mean, if you really don't want to date anyone. It's not hard."

"It's not that I don't want to date, Niall."

Honestly. It’s bound to slap Harry in the face if he actually pulled something like that. He couldn't keep that up. The idea gives him a headache.

“That’s just asking for trouble,” Harry frowns, pointing a tipsy finger towards his friend, “and to be honest, I can’t handle the stress, alright? Mum will see through it as soon as I walk in with the guy on my arm. Which,” he scoffs, which is more spit than anything else. Niall makes a disgusted face and wipes his cheek, "seeing as I’ve been whining so much about being the only singleton going to this wedding, she’s not gonna believe I’ve found a date so fast.”

“Why not?” Niall suddenly protests, impassioned. His pupils are dark saucers. Clearly he’s pissed, but then so is Harry. “If I was into guys, and hey, I’m not ruling it out,”—Harry giggles—“I’d be beating off everyone with a stick to get you.” He nods, patting Harry’s thigh.

Bless, Niall. "You're sweet," Harry grins, tickling Niall's upper arm. He squirms away, and then Harry falls back into despair. “How come they aren’t, then?” Harry pouts pitifully.

“I can think of a few reasons,” Niall smirks.

Harry wrinkles his nose, confused as to what Niall means by that. “Please. Don’t share.”

Harry frowns, taking another large gulp of his Cosmopolitan. They’re at this nice cocktail bar, the interior sleek and bright, and Harry’s soaking up the heavy scent of aftershave and the sea of smartly dressed bodies. Particularly the male bodies, obviously. _Only_ the males, rather. He finds himself cataloguing their physique, mentally ticking off all the good things about them, everything he finds attractive, and then quickly becomes incredibly frustrated with himself, his disobedient mind coming back to just one thing—or one _person_ , should he say.

His name begins with an L and ends with an S and he’s the prettiest man alive and Harry will speak no more of it.

Thank the heavens Niall doesn’t know about the run-in with Louis earlier on in the week. He’d have a fucking field day over it and Harry is not in the mood to be humiliated. He’ll be subjected to enough of that at Matty’s wedding. The one that’s in less than two weeks time. He's gotta come up with some kind of reason to arm himself with. One that'll shut people up as soon as they hear it. (Nothing too serious, mind. Just something that'll make everyone feel awks if they decide to interrogate Harry over things that have nothing to do with them.)

Harry knocks his forehead against the glass a couple of times before Niall is nudging Harry’s calf with his shoe.

Harry squints with one eye open, body instantly tensing up when he sees who’s smiling happily over at the bar, laughing along with a couple of guys, engrossed in his company.

“Shut the fuck up! That’s Louis,” Niall says excitedly, face lit up as he whips his head around to look at Harry. “Fuck, I’ve not seen him in ages!” He gets up, stool scratching the black marble floor, about to stride over to Louis and reminisce about old times and _no_. Harry grips at Niall’s arm, catching his sleeve with his slippery fingers.

“No, Niall! _Please,_ don’t go over there,” he begs, eyes pleading. “Just pretend you haven’t seen him.”

“What? Why?” Niall frowns. “It’s Louis.”

“ _Because_.” Harry hopes the desperation in his voice is enough for him to let it go. Harry is not explaining this. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re still iffy with him after all these years." Niall tilts his head, mildly exasperated. "I thought you both got on alright towards the end of uni?”

“No, just— You can talk to him after. Just don’t call him over. Not now. Niall, come on. Please.” Harry puts on his best puppy eyes.

He thinks Niall’s about convinced when he rolls his own eyes, sighing as he sits back down and takes another swig of his drink. “Fine,” he says. “But if he sees us and comes over—”

“Neil!” comes a familiar, high-pitched shout.

Oh, _god._  Fuck. Harry crouches down, turning in on himself as he tries to hide his face unsuccessfully with his hand, slurping on his drink and wishing for a quick death.

“Fuck you, you wanker,” Niall laughs raucously and pulls Louis bodily into a crushing hug as Harry blinks on, frozen and stuck to his stool, praying.

“When was the last time we met up?” Niall asks, grinning wildly, genuinely overjoyed to see Louis, and Louis beams back at him, eyes crinkled in the corners, the light catching the blue of his eyes. Harry’s stomach churns with something he doesn’t want to decipher, looking away from them. Louis still hasn’t seen him. God willing, he might just get away with this.

“Too fucking long, mate. I’ve missed you,” Louis replies, voice soft. Harry feels sick, awful butterflies rummaging around in there.

They hug again and laugh about an old, stupid joke that even Harry remembers when he _feels_ the quiet, feels the air change, despite the music blaring around them.

“Harry?”

Harry clamps his eyes closed, hating the way his heartbeat speeds up fiercely at the sound of Louis saying his name. He might fall off this stool if he drinks his cocktail any faster. Actually, he needs another one about now, his straw is just about to hit the ice—

Niall whacks him over the shoulder.

“Ow,” Harry grits over his straw, glaring at him. Niall raises his brows as if to say, _Well? Say hello, you prick._

“Hi, Louis,” he murmurs, not sure his voice is exactly carrying over the music, but Louis seems to have heard because he’s looking at him now. Intently. He's wearing a flimsy charcoal button-up, slightly sheer, a sparkly bomber jacket over it. Hair styled in another messy fringe. He lets his tongue slip out minutely to lick over his thin, lovely lips.

Harry gulps the last swig down, exhaling a shaky breath. “Um—”

“Hey,” Louis says, mouth slowly blossoming into a timidly warm smile, and Harry blinks rapidly, confused that this warmth is aimed at him. He even turns around for a second to make sure he’s not looking at anyone else.

But no. Louis' definitely looking at Harry.

"Hey," Harry says, voice rough like it hasn't been used for ages. "All right?" That was a bit gruffer than he meant to sound.

Louis stares back, face unreadable. He nods slowly.

"I'm going to get us some drinks," Niall says then suddenly, shooting Harry a knowing glance. "Same again, Harry?"

"Uh, please. Yeah," he nods. "Thanks," he says, eyes fixing back on Louis. Because he can never help it.

"Louis?" 

"A vodka soda and lime. Thanks, Niall." Louis breaks their gaze and settles it on Niall instead. "I'll go with you," he says jovially, patting a hand on Niall's back.

"Nah, you're fine, mate. I won't be two ticks. Catch up with Harry," he grins, and scuttles off into the crowd, leaving Harry and Louis alone for the first time in three years.

Harry really might be sick but he's drawn to Louis' presence like a cat wanting desperately to catch a bird, eyes never leaving it as long as its still in its proximity. 

It’s a lot to take in. _Louis_ is a lot to take in. Three of his buttons are undone on his shirt, a smattering of hair poking out of the top. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurts out.

Louis’ now impassive face softens imperceptibly, but it’s there, a tiny quirk in the corners of his lips, his eyes less startled, a tinge more amiable.

"For earlier in the week," Harry clarifies. "I was a dick. I suppose I'm still as petty as ever, but I'm afraid it's where my downfall lies. We can't all be perfect," he quips wryly. He pauses, swallowing the dryness of his throat, acutely aware Louis' stare manages to make the hair on Harry's arms stand on end. He stares at the table. "I don't know what came over me."

Louis doesn't say anything for a long moment, features twitching in unease, awkwardness. Harry doesn't ever remember Louis being awkward. Shy, sometimes, yes. Quiet at other times, too. With certain people. But not to this extent. Harry feels completely out of his depth. He has no idea what's happening right now. He isn't drunk enough for this. His head is a mess.

"I can guess."

Harry looks up from where he was fixated on a section of the sticky black surface. "What?"

"Why you were less than thrilled to see me." Louis visibly swallows. 

"This is the part where you apologise now, too," Harry says, trying to break the ice, smiling.

"For what?" Louis frowns.

And... excuse me? For _what?_ Is he being serious?

Harry's smile drops. "Wait. Are you being serious?" 

"Are you?" 

" _Yes_." Harry glares. Is he really not going to say sorry?

"For god's sake. What have I even done?" Louis demands shrilly, another button coming loose on his shirt and that is _so_ distracting. Harry is positively boiling.

He keeps his voice firm when he says, "Louis, if you seriously don't know what—"

"Drinks are here!" Niall exclaims, plonking another Cosmopolitan in a tall glass onto the table, handing Louis his drink, which Louis takes blindly, eyes stuck in a glare aimed at Harry. Niall glances between the two of them. "So, what we talking about? Old times, I bet? Hey, you two used to get up to a _lot_ of shit. It was the most hilarious thing. You two up against everyone else," Niall smiles, shaking his head in fond nostalgia. 

Louis looks down, still as a statue. 

Harry feels hollow.

Niall frowns at him in a wordless question.

"I, um, I'm really sorry, Niall. But I'm gonna have to catch up with you another time. I have to go check on my mate. He's not feeling too well right now," Louis says, surprisingly convincing, but Harry knows he's lying, tearing his eyes from him and frowning hard at his drink, fiddling with the lime garnish and popping the olive into his mouth.

"Aw, man. I'm sorry to hear that. Text me, then, yeah? You've got my number."

"I do, I do." Louis plasters on a sunny smile. Harry's eyes drift to him helplessly. "I'll see you around. It was good to see you, anyway. And thank you for the drink. I owe you one next time."

"That you do, mate. Love ya." Niall kisses his neck and pulls him into a one-armed hug, letting Louis go. Harry determinedly flicks his gaze away again when he feels Louis' eyes on him, before he then turns back around with a final chirpy, "You too, Neil," and Harry watches him make his way back into the growing throng of dressed-up bodies, a taller, slightly burlier man with a brown quiff greeting him with a crinkly-eyed grin, swinging an arm around Louis' neck.

Harry darts his eyes away when the man looks over at him.

"Right. You wanna tell me what happened in the two seconds I was gone? Or do I have to throttle it out of you?" Niall says, tone snarky, a small, disappointed crease between his eyes, settling his forearm atop the table, taking a quick swig of his lager.

"No, thank you," Harry murmurs guiltily, sucking on his straw, silently asking the universe to let him start over.


	2. Two

 

Louis grumbled indignantly all the cab ride home, much to Liam's exasperated dismay.

Though his friend was so out of it by the end of the night (most of which was spent tediously avoiding Harry at the other end of the bar), that Louis hopes Liam won't remember most of what he talked about, not when he was freely saying things such as " _Harry's no longer curly-haired but he's still a gigantic prick",_ or _"One I'd still a hundred percent get into bed with and ravish all night long"_ and, _"Oh, god, what did he even mean by 'if you seriously don't know'?"_ along with _, "What have I done, Liaaaam?"_ and, _"He looked so fucking gorgeous. Don't you think he looked so gorgeous with that new haircut?"_ And he's going to pretend he didn't say _, "I miss him more than fucking king-size Mars Bars. And that's a lot of missing, Lime. That's a bloody lot of missing."_

See, whatever Harry might think, Louis didn’t leave him that night on purpose. Well. He chose to leave, yes. But it wasn't a conscious decision to hurt him in the process. So, maybe Harry is right about some parts. Maybe Louis can be a little bit oblivious, but... fuck. Why didn't Harry tell him this years ago? What even was that breakdown in the record shop the other day? Louis'd only said hello and Harry fell apart in front of his eyes.

Louis _had_ to go back then. He was on a tight schedule as it was. Everything had been happening so fast. He’d be gone in the morning, wasn't able to stay over and keep Harry's midriff warm, because he was _leaving_.

Louis was moving to London after Graduation. That was the plan before and it was the plan afterwards. It was a lot of change to get used to. So much was happening. It was so fast-moving that Louis didn't have time to breathe.

He just left it too long to call Harry. Scared and awkward and maybe a bit embarrassed about the whole thing.

But Harry implying Louis doesn't care about others, that he didn't care about Harry, that he didn't realise what he was doing when he left? That all hurts. It does. And he's not fine with it. He wasn't fine leaving behind everything he knew. Of course he wasn't. He wasn't "carefree" about anything. Not then, not now, not ever. Harry should have known that. 

And Louis hates goodbyes.

So he snuck out in the early hours. He crept out while Harry lay soundly sleeping, instantly missing the warm, balmy press of Harry’s naked side to his, the soft tickle of his breaths against his neck, tracing the soreness of the lovebites Harry had littered at the base of his throat, a heavy knot weighing down inside his belly as he tip-toed out of Harry’s bedroom. He walked home, tie undone and shirt untucked, hair in wild disarray—the culprit of which being Harry’s unrelenting, feverish hands—and kept on walking.

Part of him wanted to turn back around, especially when the tightness in his chest got worse with each laboured step down the road. Feeling like a rope was strangling his internal organs, making it painful to breathe. He wanted to ask Harry what had just happened. If it meant anything to him. Ask him to come down to London with him. Maybe. For a while. A bit.

But really, what good would it have done? If Louis _had_ called?

Alright, so Harry didn’t know Louis’ plans. And he's sorry that he didn't tell him. But truthfully, Louis didn't exactly know he was even going either, not until a few weeks before their ceremony. There was no point in starting something with Harry. They'd left it way too long. Whatever they were even doing, anyway. And it wasn’t a lot—what they were doing—just some suggestive flirting on the regular, letting stares linger and the occasional _almost_ moment that left Louis out of sorts and a little dizzy. (And perhaps a _lot_ confused. Particularly over that lust-filled, smugly breathless stare Harry would give him after one of _those_ encounters.)

(Which involved the rare soft kiss on a whim. Against a wall, or a door, or the lockers in the gym, after football during the first year, never spoken about after. It was weird. Louis doesn't really count those times.)

And then _that_ night happened, after a three-year long, excruciating build-up that would have given both them blue balls if they hadn’t had a few other faceless rendezvous in between. (Louis can only speak for himself, but those handful of times only made the craving for Harry worse.) (None of those people ever compared to ~~someone~~ something Louis hadn’t even had yet. It both depressed him and only made him stick to Harry's side harder.)

They had that _one_ night together, the perfect way to say _goodbye and thanks for the memories_ as far as Louis was concerned. Neither expressed the two of them sleeping together being anything other than it was: a hook-up they’d both wanted for ages, simply too buoyant and pissed out of their minds to delve further into what it meant, or could mean. If it meant anything at all. Besides, Harry didn’t want to talk about anything that was less than ridiculous once he’d had half a dozen drinks inside him. Harry saved the deep stuff for when he was completely sober. (The weirdo. Who bares their soul without an ounce of liquid luck? Mad prat.)

No, it was the opposite with Harry. You couldn’t get a word of sense out of him when he was drunk, only the silliest, nonsensical things that often involved naked streaking and wearing their female friends' dresses. It was when Harry was stone-cold sober and clear-headed that the tears would flow. Emotional chap, he was. It was one of the things Louis admired most about him—his total, unapologetic ability to show his vulnerabilities at any given point.

And frankly, Louis always ended up crying himself when Harry cried. (No one will ever hear that alive unless they want to be buried in the ground with a shovel.)

There were a handful of times like that. Once, Harry broke a rib playing an especially rough game of football, getting into a nasty tackle with an absolute (homophobic) twat who hated Harry’s headbands. Harry went down so hard and was in so much pain that he couldn’t help the tears. Louis had to bite his cheek at the sight of Harry's red face sobbing and coughing, in hope of stopping himself, a twenty-year old, from absolutely bawling in front of everyone else looking on. Especially when Louis wasn't even the one injured. (Spoiler: it was unsuccessful.)

Because despite what they jokingly claimed was the opposite, Harry and Louis were, in actuality, best friends, and Louis hated to see his friend in such a shit-load of intense pain. He’d punched the prick who’d tackled Harry in the nose when no one was looking and sat with Harry in the ambulance, holding his hand.

Another time was later on in their second year. Harry had gotten a phone call in the library, in the middle of their standard bickering session while attempting to study, informing him that his auntie on his dad’s side had sadly died that afternoon after a short illness. Harry traipsed back to their shared desk and started to sob silently into his arms on the table. Louis wordlessly held him, thankful their desk was situated at the back, and privately cried along with his friend, even though he’d never met any of his relatives apart from his mum and sister. He just helplessly caught feelings from whatever Harry openly, unabashedly felt.

The other times weren’t quite so dramatic. Harry had burst into tears over an article he’d written being published in the uni’s own newspaper, based on Louis’ vocal support of the LGBT+ community while playing for the university’s football team and what that meant for awareness and acceptance within the sport, even if it was only a small, local team. Louis had joined in with a few proud tears of his own, and then quickly fell back into ribbing him in front of the others. Harry didn’t mind. Especially not when Louis pulled him into a hug after class and bought him some congratulatory weed to smoke in Louis’ new banger of a car, having also picked out Harry's favourite Rolling Stones album to pop into the car's CD player for them to listen to.

He'd even got a brief kiss on the mouth for it. Louis shrugged it off and didn't read into it. And the remaining occasions were just Harry getting emotional over a really good, sad song, or at seeing a puppy being left alone in the rain on TV. Or that summer in second year that they attended Leeds Festival and Harry got choked up seeing one of his favourite bands live.

But, anyway. Jesus. Enough of Louis recalling all the points in time where they were both a couple of cry babies.

Back to the night of their Graduation...

Harry just went ahead and kissed Louis without another moment of hesitancy, kissed far deeper and intentional than he ever had before, more than willing to let Louis touch him, to run his hands over his body, something Louis had been craving since that first day Harry had walked into halls, wide-eyed and fresh, setting his suitcase onto the bare mattress of his dorm, looking soft and young and vivacious, ready for the next three years to begin.

He didn’t call Harry about it because he wasn’t aware Harry wanted him to.

And then there was the slight detail that the last six months or so leading up to their final exams, they’d been pulling away more and more, spending less and less time together. Even less time playfully fighting.

So the after party following the ceremony was a surprise to Louis, to say the least. A good one, but then one that made it all the more harder to leave Harry's bed.

But if Harry really expected something else, something _more,_ then why didn’t _he_ call Louis?

All Louis can remember is receiving a text about a week later, casually asking how Louis was. They exchanged a dozen short messages, ending with Louis telling Harry about his internship for a fashion PA position in London, and how he hoped it would secure him a permanent role in the field and that he was planning on living there for the foreseeable future.

Harry replied with a _‘That’s great’_ and a _‘Hope it all turns out well’_ , and then never heard from him again.

Maybe Louis could have tried harder to keep in touch, true, but he’s been busy. It’s been non-stop since he left uni, and he’s incredibly lucky, he knows that. But Louis hasn’t done anything wrong? Not on purpose. He wasn’t being malicious in not calling Harry.

And, please, it takes two to tango, alright? Harry easily could have kept in contact, too.

He’s honestly baffled as to what it is that has Harry shooting hostile looks his way and displaying such unwarranted animosity towards him. Louis’ highly offended.

Okay, so they always had some banter between them, seriously drove each other up the wall at times, squabbling like crazy and knowing _exactly_ how to push each other’s buttons, knew precisely what would rile the other up big-time. So much so that everyone not in their close-knit circle assumed they hated one another.

But that wasn’t true. That wasn’t it at all.

It was just their thing. They’d smirk at each other right after some particularly harsh banter like nothing happened, because it wasn’t serious. It was never meant. It was never for real. 

At least, _Louis_ thought it wasn’t.

Liam enters the living room now, yawning, and dumps himself down next to Louis on the white, cashmere sofa of their apartment in Hampstead, decked out in a pair of washed-out, grey skinny jeans, a silver and crimson Gucci bomber jacket strewn over his shoulders, a wicked pair of low Gucci bee embroidered sneakers on his feet. (Louis’ not above nicking them for himself on occasion, despite being given plenty of free stuff to advertise himself, what with the part-time modelling jobs he does himself now. It’s fun.)

“What’s on the agenda today, then, boss?” Liam asks, planting his head on Louis’ shoulder as Louis frowns hard at the schedule in his hands, trying to make sense of the words striped with yellow highlighter pen, instead of being hung up on what the hell Harry meant the other day, when he said the last time they saw each other was _three_ years ago.

Because as far as Louis is aware, that did _not_ happen?

Unless. Louis was so out of it he has no recollection of the supposed meeting... and shit, maybe that's really why Harry is so pissed at him? What did they even _do_? Louis is sweating just imagining the kinds of scenarios they could have engaged in if they were stone drunk. And he must have been completely wasted to not remember a thing.

Louis feels highly uncomfortable.

“You’ve got a photoshoot at eleven am so a cab is on its way for ten,” Louis says, getting back to what he should be thinking about. “After that you’ve got a fitting for one-thirty. Oh, and you have an invite for a premiere later, if you want to go?”

Liam nods, studying Louis intently. “Okay, cool. What’s the film?”

“Um—” Louis is cut off by the buzz of his phone. He followed Harry on Instagram because he likes to suffer apparently. It’s a notification of his latest post: his breakfast, a mixture of a full English and some other green crap that Louis can’t help the smile that threatens to make itself known against his own accord. “Some... war movie.”

“Have you, uh, spoken to Harry again?”

Louis whips his head to look at Liam, narrowing his eyes at his friend and client, who has a smirk on his face, a knowing glint in his brown eyes.

“No,” Louis sniffs.

“You two have things to sort out, don’t you? You should arrange to meet up.” He nudges Louis’ arm, still grinning.

“Why?” Louis frowns.

“Why not?” Liam asks, a genuinely puzzled expression on his face. “You’re clearly obsessed with this guy. He certainly seemed wary of me,” he laughs.

“I’m obsessed with Harry, am I?” Louis states, unimpressed. “How’d you work that one out, Lime?”

“You’re stalking his Instagram account right now for a start.” Louis lets loose an indignant squawk. “And you would not stop going on about him after the other night. Then there’s the fact you basically freaked out that you’d been invited to this Matt’s wedding because Harry is his cousin and he’s obviously going to be there.”

Louis sighs loudly, a bit childishly too. He’s right on all counts. Bastard.

“And it lasts five days, this wedding, right? There’ll be brunches and dinners and things. Get to know him again or it’s going to be awkward as fuck. Weren’t you guys good friends?”

“Yes,” Louis agrees, a little too insistently. “Until we slept together and never got in contact again,” he grumbles, chucking the schedule onto the glass coffee table at his feet, folding his arms and burying his back into the sofa a bit sulkily.

“Still think you should call him. Sort it out. Hey, you never know, you might get to sleep with him a second time,” Liam winks, chuckling.

“It’s starting to look like that may have already happened,” Louis says, heat creeping up the back of his neck, a slight ebb of mortification poking at him.

“Hey?” Liam frowns. “When?”

“I’d very much like to know myself.”

“All the more reason to start talking again, then,” Liam urges.

He should, but the last two times have been disasters. He exits the tab and brings up Harry’s contact, still in his phone. Because he’s a sentimental bastard and couldn’t bring himself to erase Harry in hope he’d call or text again one day.

“Fine,” Louis sighs in defeat. “We're going back up to Manchester for another shoot in a few days anyway. I'll message him about meeting up then.”

“Good,” Liam smiles. “Now help me choose between these designers. They're both brilliant and I don't want to hurt one of their feelings.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

**

There was a reason Harry had decided to cut his hair, even though he’d been adamant he was growing it until it got down to his nipples (the extra two).

He’d found out not only was Matty getting married, (which, yes, is amazing) but he was inviting _Louis_ to his five-day wedding retreat that they were having at some posh hotel in Cheshire, because they were all close in uni and that warrants an invite apparently, despite not having met up in five years.

Harry had a bit of a meltdown.

He’d been quite proud of himself so far, pleased with how far down he’d pushed the memory of Louis inside his head, locked them away in a padlocked safe, the key hidden somewhere secret, barricaded by a shit ton of emotional baggage and anxious fears about his future.

And then Matty had to go and drop that bombshell on Harry, right after he was going through distraught panic after having been told he was being made redundant for the second time in two years.

Suffice to say, Harry felt like shit.

He booked an appointment with the hairdresser almost immediately on a crazy whim, armed with the notion this would somehow help him clear his fogged-up mind.

He’d of course cried his eyes out with regret when the hairdresser and his mates had left. (It was by no means a “little” cry like he said.)

And then a month later, Louis happened to turn up in the same record shop that Harry was browsing in Manchester’s town centre.

The universe obviously had it in for Harry.

But Harry woke up this morning with a new sense of optimism and confidence (surely short-lived but he ran with it) floating through his bones after a long conversation with Niall, reminiscing about their uni days and dredging up all the repressed memories of Louis he had.

Harry realised they were mostly good memories, if not all of them, in fact. And suddenly he wasn't even entirely sure why it is he'd kept away for so long. Life felt too short all of a sudden.

So Harry has decided today is going to be the first of the rest of his life.

He’s no longer going to spend his time whinging about everything that’s wrong, and instead he will voice everything that could or will go right, or make it that way. Even if he fails.

Yup. Harry’s gone to a whimsical place that before he would have said was a bit wanky, but now he’s past caring.

Because enough is enough.

So before he could think or talk himself out of it, Harry texted Louis.

_Hi, Louis, it’s Harry. I was hoping we could meet up some time this week to talk? If you’re still around Manchester?_

There. Amiable. Friendly, even. To the point.

And to Harry’s surprise, he got a reply almost immediately. He'd been fully prepared to suffer through anxiety for hours due to no response. 

**_Hi. I’m actually back in London, but I’m coming back Friday night. Would that be a suitable day for you?_ **

Hm. Very amiable, too. A tad formal. Huh.

_That’s fine. Shall we say seven pm? There’s this Chinese restaurant we could meet at?_

**_Oh, right. You didn’t want to just get coffee?_ **

_I have some work to finish for an article during the day and an interview in the afternoon. So, dinner would be better? If that’s cool with you?_

**_No, sure. That’s fine. See you then, H_**

_Great._

Harry even let the warm sensation of Louis calling him 'H' settle within him, bubbling to the surface of his pores. He always called him that, and it's so familiar to Harry.

So since that conversation went so sensibly, Harry is running on a new air of breeziness.

And today is a new day.

So Harry waltzes in, cheerful and light, plonking himself down at the table outside of the pub, the summer air cool and refreshing and filling Harry’s lungs. He smiles extra broadly as he greets Niall and is extra nice to the waitress taking their lunch orders, and makes an extra effort to keep a carefree skip in his step.

(This positivity acceptance malarkey is quite calming.)

“Just a Caesar salad for me, thank you,” Harry grins, feeling decidedly perky, the soft wind billowing at the flowy shirt resting low on his hips as he sits.

He turns back to Niall, who’s staring at him with sceptical eyes. “What have you been smoking?” he asks suspiciously. Then, “Can I have some?”

“I’ve not been smoking anything, Niall,” Harry replies easily.

"You had sex, didn't you?"

Harry narrows his eyes at him, his lips pulling into an amused curve. 

"You did! It was with Louis, wasn't it?"

What? Where did that come from?

"Oh my god, it was!" Niall laughs, rather vigorously, far too excited about the prospect of his friends being intimate with each other. Harry's a little weirded out.

And Harry's smile falls right off his face. "No, Niall. We absolutely did not." _Not for years_ , he almost says, and takes out the see-through flask of his homemade kale and blackberry smoothie.

“The hell is that green shit?” Niall points in horror.

“It’s a smoothie, Niall. It’s good for you. A detox. Gets rid of all the gross toxins in your body.” Harry smiles. “Cheers.”

Harry takes one swig and gags immediately.

Niall bursts out laughing. “That’ll teach you. Pretentious bastard,” he grins.

Harry grimaces, gagging once more and sets down the flask with disgust. Maybe he should have left out the dandelion extract. This is fucking gross. No wonder the online comments called it ‘The Vomit-Inducing Drink’.

“Yeah, no. Fuck that. I’ll have a vodka tonic instead, I think,” he croaks. 

"Hey, I've been thinking," Niall starts.

"Oh no."

"And, uh, since Louis is going to the wedding, too, and for some reason, unbeknown to me, you're both weird as fuck around each other, well, why don't you tell people he's your ex"ꟷHarry does his best not to flinchꟷ"and that's why you'd rather not talk about the subject. Since you're so convinced that's all people will ask you about. Paranoid freak."

"And my career," Harry adds with a sniff. "Or there lack of..." He clears his throat awkwardly. "What I'm doing with my life and all that," he sighs, forlorn.

But. He might be onto something here.

"You think I should tell a couple people he's my ex-boyfriend?"

"Yep. The most likely to gossip, and it'll keep 'em entertained the whole time you're there. No one will dare mention your love life for fear of upsetting you. Make one big scene if it goes pear-shaped and everyone will shut their gobs. Easy. Sorted." Niall crosses and un-crosses his legs a few times, slapping his hands together like a complete prat. As if he's so bloody clever.

And yeah. He is. 

"Shit, Niall. That might work."

"What did I tell ya? I'm full of bright ideas. Dunno why everyone looks right past me. I'm incredibly smart."

"That you are, Niall. That you are," Harry grins, the wheels turning in his head.

The only thing left to do is awkwardly run it by Louis and pray for the best. Worst comes to worst, he'll have to offer to pay him. All he'll have to do is go along with it. Shoot a few murderous glances Harry's way. It shouldn't be too hard. No one will want to start a scene. For someone as dramatic as Harry, his family are the least likely to start a row, so. 

It's perfect.

Camera and... action. Sorta.

**

It's later on, and Harry is wincing as he makes his way down the high street in his new tan leather ankle boots, having taken a detour and decided on dropping into a nearby bookshop to ask about any current vacancies. The boots are narrower than he’d usually go for and the heel is a tad higher than he normally wears, but they were half off so Harry couldn’t resist in further feeding his shoe addiction. The bargain was too good to miss and they’re just so pretty.

They just make his feet feel like they’re bleeding slowly to death. No biggie.

“Shit,” he hisses as he tries to twist his ankles around, trying to find a more comfortable angle for walking to no avail. He makes whimpery noises as he gets slower and slower, the pain getting worse as he stops at the traffic lights, about to cross the road.

The road isn’t busy so Harry darts into it as fast as his battered feet will carry him, (which granted isn’t a lot at all, instead hobbling across it) glancing right to see the car storming towards him too late.

Harry throws himself out of the way and lands in a heap at the side of the road, instantly feeling like someone’s thrown a gigantic rock at his head. He feels over his forehead and brings his hand away to see red.

Oh, lovely. He’s cracked his head open.

“Jesus Christ, Harry! What the hell were you playing at?”

Harry, dizzy and probably concussed, looks up with great difficulty to see Louis standing over him, like a beacon of goddamn magnificent light, blocking Harry’s vision of the blue sky and instead gifting him with a far more beautiful sight, a concerned expression on his clean-shaven face, those blue eyes wide with alarm.

Harry’s breath would catch if he wasn’t so fuzzy.

“Are you alright?” Louis asks, voice strained and high-pitched. “I could have fucking killed you, you idiot! Did you never learn the fucking highway code?” He crouches down next to Harry and hovers his fingers over Harry’s head wound. “Shit. That’s a deep gash,” he points out, voice softer. Harry keeps his gaze fixated on Louis’ face, off-kilter and feeling distinctly like someone is holding his head underwater. “It’ll need stitches, most probably. Come on. I’ll drive you to A&E, you dozy thing.”

Harry can only frown up at him, rather disorientated and feeling increasingly nauseous. He can’t even feel his bloody feet. “’M not dozy,” is all he murmurs, unsteadily letting Louis manhandle him into a standing position and drag him over to his car.

He slumps into the passenger seat, clutching at his head with a handful of tissues Louis passes him to stop the blood flow to his cut.

Louis keeps sending Harry what he would like to believe are worried glances while he drives him to the hospital, and they end up having to wait an hour or so before Harry is seen, sitting in mostly awkward silence and going through two cups of weak tea.

“What are you doing back in Manchester already, anyway?” Harry asks now, unable to keep thinking all sorts to himself any longer. His brain is in hyperactive overdrive or whatever, and with Louis standing right here, it does things to him. Stupid, insufferable things. Hazy, warm things, perhaps. “Thought we said Friday?”

“Yeah, well, I’m here again to see the family and that before the wedding. Didn’t get the chance to last week. Had to go back home for work.”

“Oh," Harry nods. "The wedding isn’t for another week yet, though?”

“My client had a photoshoot nearby.”

“Oh.”

Being reminded of the reason why Louis left right after graduation stirs up another tinge of frustration and hurt ( ~~heartbreak~~ ), and... a huge amount of pride. Everything went well for Louis and he’s so pleased for him.

He doesn’t tell him that.

“You didn’t have to stay, you know,” Harry says when the nurse begins stitching him up, grimacing. Turned out it wasn't that deep a cut, but he did need a few still. “I thought you would have left by now.”

“Why?” Louis’ standing by the bed, arms crossed, a prominent frown on his face as he watches the nurse do her work. “You need someone to drive you home, don’t you?” he says, still looking at his head.

“Yeah, but... That’s your specialty, isn’t it?” Harry lowers his gaze, staring at the Nike trainers on the nurse’s feet.

“What is?”

Harry pauses. “Leaving," he mutters, wincing as soon as he says it, regretting it instantly.

There’s stone silence for several seconds. The nurse quietly clears her throat. Well, this is awkward. God. Why did he even say that? What is wrong with him? They might have been getting along. Harry feels the guilt gnaw at his insides.

“Fuck you.”

Harry whips his head up, clouded with remorse, jogging the nurse's hand in the process.

Louis swivels around and whips the curtain open, abruptly disappearing behind it.

Harry’s chest constricts. He doesn’t know why he keeps trying to start fights. Maybe he just wants Louis to say it. To admit it to his face. That he never intended on staying until the morning that night. That it was a mistake. And the fleeting time after that.

Maybe then Harry can finally move on.

A few seconds pass and then the curtain opens again. “Actually, no,” Louis announces, flicking his fringe out of his eyes. “You know what? I’m _not_ giving you the satisfaction by leaving this time, alright? I am staying right here until your bloody head’s all stitched up and good to go and then I am going to drive you home safe. _Alright_?”

“Alright,” Harry drawls petulantly, his mouth quirking beyond his control, liking the fact Louis is going to stay more than he probably should. He sneaks another glance at him. Louis’ jaw is set and he’s staring at his phone but he’s here, and he cares. He does.

Harry tries to contain the smile that’s threatening to expose him and looks down.

Louis shuts up for the rest of the stitches.

Things turn south quickly though, when Harry just can’t keep his foot out of his mouth.

It starts when they walk to the car, Louis getting his phone out to answer a call. Harry sits patiently in the passenger seat, pleased as punch that he’s spent this much time alone with Louis and hasn’t yet imploded. (This must be a record. God, he frequently nearly came in his pants back in the day.)

He’s waiting with the hint of a smile on his lips—head still throbbing but decidedly more relaxed after the painkillers he was given have begun to set in—when Louis starts giggling, his soft, flirtatious voice like melted wax still gooey making a much long-awaited appearance in Harry’s presence.

Harry can’t stop his eyes from sliding to Louis, fixated on watching his every giddy facial expression, the fidgety hand that incessantly brushes through his fringe, the slight blush of his cheeks, and the green-eyed monster rears his ugly head like a flash of lightning.

Harry turns away when Louis raises his eyebrows at Harry’s probably stormy face. “Who was that?” he has the audacity to mumble after Louis finally ends the call.

Louis studies him for an unnerving moment and then comes the phrase that makes Harry want to jump in front of another car. “Hm? Oh, just the boyfriend.”

“You’re—you have a boyfriend?” Harry breathes.

“You think I wouldn’t? That’s real nice, mate. Cheers,” Louis scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“But do you?” Harry urges.

“What’s it to you?” Louis frowns, impish eyes following down to his mouth, which stretches into an amused smirk. It isn’t nice. It’s challenging, almost. Harry wants to climb out of the car right now, but his feet hurt and he’s dizzy and tired and he just wants to go home.

So he stays put. Because it’s not like he has any other choice. Calling a friend would take too long. And Niall’s a definite no. He can hardly phone his mum to come pick him up from the hospital because he almost got run over by the boy—man—that he's... well.

He can't say " _come pick me up for a cut to the head because Louis almost ran me over with his car. Remember Louis? The boy I used to talk about all the time? The one you thought was adorable and wanted me to marry?"_

He’d never hear the end of it.

“It isn't,” Harry snaps. “I don’t care who you sleep with,” he says, perhaps a tad too defensive, and childish.

(He’s like that. It’s an illness. He has an outgrown infantile nature.) (His mother’s very proud.)

“No. Of course you don’t.” Louis stares ahead, blindly turning the key in the ignition.

The drive was silent for the rest of the short journey home, save for the low volume of the radio, and Harry frowned hard as he leaned against the window, arms around his upper body, nausea climbing up his chest.

Harry was further livid when the DJ decided to put on Sam Smith’s ‘Stay With Me’. He was seriously considering jumping out of the moving car to escape the unbearable implications of the woeful lyrics, hanging between him and Louis, like a boulder had suddenly dropped on top of them. Harry could relate far too closely and he did not want to think about this right now.

Oh, good god. Would someone put him out of his fucking misery?

When Louis _finally_ pulled up outside of his flat building, Harry undid his seat-belt and eyed him hesitantly, breath caught in his throat. “Um... Am I still seeing you this Friday? Or is—”

“Yeah. I’ll still see you then,” Louis said quietly, hands tightly clutched to the wheel, the car engine running.

“Oh, okay. Um. Good.” Harry sat there a moment longer, and when it was clear Louis was done talking, he opened the door, wanting to stay in the car with Louis for as long as possible for some embarrassingly desperate reason that Harry was far more aware of than he was willing to admit to himself. “Thank you, Louis. For taking me to hospital.”

Louis looked up at that, a small frown on his face, fringe falling into his eyes. Harry’s fingers itched to brush it away.

“And for almost running you over?” he smirked then.

“Yeah. That, too. Really appreciate it.” Harry let himself smile. "I'm sure it was difficult for you to make use of the brakes. Really demonstrated some self-control."

Louis returned his smile, if a little timidly, but then his face was already morphing back into a frown. "Bye, then, Harry. I'll see you Friday."

"Bye," Harry said, grabbing Louis' amiable nod with both hands and walking dejectedly inside only once he could no longer see Louis' car.

**

Louis is late.

And Harry’s struck with the awful feeling he’s not coming.

See, last night, Harry texted Louis again, double-checking the time and place, informing him he had a stupid idea to tell him about, wine clouding his thoughts with an ill-judged belief that he had (well... _Niall_ had) a decent plan to get him through this wedding with as few mood swings and drunken scenes as possible.

Niall's idea came back to him when he’d received a lecture off his dad about what he was doing with his life, shortly followed by his aunt visiting his mum with news of another of his cousins getting engaged and another having been promoted at the media company they work for. Gemma bringing up the new marital home her and Sam were planning on putting an offer in for didn’t do anything to lighten Harry’s mood either.

Harry felt like shit again. A currently loosely-employed, (more like completely _unemployed)_ very single, very poor, _failure._

So Harry was still determined to get everyone off his back, not in any mood for the start of Matty and Beth’s five-day wedding beginning on Wednesday. The actual wedding not taking place until Sunday afternoon and the stag night happening on the Saturday, obviously.

He needed a distraction to get people quietly talking about behind Harry’s back. One that he’d planted himself and that would put a stop to everyone’s judgemental, prying questions and teasing.

(He really was so dramatic.)

At last, Louis strolls in, looking like a combination of one of Harry’s wet dreams and every inch the walking Gucci ad.

Harry is equal parts in awe and envy.

“Hey,” Louis says, taking the seat opposite Harry, eyes drinking in the restaurant's surroundings until they settle on Harry, soft and ruffled and effortlessly fashionable. And stunning. And generally drop dead gorgeous. Harry is suffering already. "Sorry, I'm late. Traffic."

"It’s fine." Harry clears his throat, feeling awkward now.

"How's your head?" Louis asks as he gets comfortable, pushing his chair closer.

"Oh, the cut's better already. Barely there, really." He lifts his fringe up where it's covering the remaining stitches in the corner next to his temple. 

"Good. I'm glad."

Harry nods. "Thanks."

He watches Louis look around for a moment. “You’re certainly kitted out in the latest trends. Working in the fashion industry pays off, then? What are you wearing?"

"Hm?" Louis looks down at himself. "Oh, this is a McQueen jumper." It looks like cashmere, the collar low, exposing his throat and collarbones. There's a tiny white swallow print on it, too.

Harry clears his throat.

"Shit. It's nice. You do just get free stuff or?"

“Yeah. It’s pretty amazing, actually. Hard work, though. Busy. Long hours, but I have Liam, so it’s not so bad,” he smiles.

“Liam?” Harry blinks.

“Yeah,” is all Louis is willing to give up apparently.

Harry kneads his hands atop the table, frowning as he wonders whether this Liam is the boyfriend Louis mentioned in the car. “Help yourself to wine,” he says, desperate to not be thinking about this.

“Thanks,” Louis says, pouring himself half a glass of red. It’s quiet for another few seconds. “So. You said you had a proposition for me, or something?” Louis reminds him, giving him an odd look.

“Oh, yeah.” Harry swallows heavily. “So this might seem kind of silly, and probably seems kind of... out of the blue, especially for me to be asking _you_ this.”

“Okay...” Louis’ brows furrow, a mild flash of panic in his eyes, Harry thinks.

“Yeah. Um. I need you to pretend you’re my ex at the wedding next week,” Harry rushes out in one quick breath.

Louis chokes on the wine he’s just put to his lips.

“Look. I’ll pay you. Within reason. I don’t have a lot of cash to spare but if you won’t do it for free, I guess I can give you a sensible amount. You won’t even have to do anything, I promise. Just go along with it. That’s all you'll have to do.”

“You want _me_ to pretend to be your _ex-boyfriend_?” Louis says, practically aghast. Harry doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s a little offended, if he’s honest.

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Harry snaps. “You’re close enough to the groom to have gotten an invite but not close enough that people will question when it was we supposedly dated,” he explains, “because no one will know you well enough anymore. It's been years since uni. You only met mum a few times.”

 _And she loved you already_ , Harry doesn’t say.

“You’ve actually thought about this, haven’t you?” Louis folds his arms, tapping his feet under the table in an incessant rhythm. It’s very irritating, until Harry suddenly remembers it’s Louis’ nervous tick. Harry used to put his hand on his thigh to calm him down.

It’s not like he can do that now.

“You have no idea,” he groans, momentarily shutting his eyes. “My mum won't stop pestering me about bringing a date because I won’t stop going on about it, so it’s my fault really, that she keeps hinting she’s got some guys lined up for me to meet at the wedding. She’s bluffing. I’ve seen the guest list, but she’s driving me up the wall.”

Harry looks up to Louis completely zoned out and studying the cocktail menu intently.

“What are you doing?”

“I want to order a different drink.”

“Okay,” Harry replies with a frown.

Louis does order a drink. Takes his sweet time doing it, too. Asking questions here and there, what the waitress would recommend. Finally, he settles on one. A Cherry Blossom Martini. Then he starts on ordering a bloody load of starters. He better be planning on paying for all this.

“What are you doing now?”

“Having dinner,” Louis says like it’s obvious. “You said so, right?”

“Yes,” Harry grits. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“So? Will you do it?” Harry sighs impatiently.

“Do what?” Louis asks casually.

Harry is going to strangle him at this very table.

“Pretend to be my ex at the wedding,” Harry repeats, on the verge of tearing his hair out.

“Yeah, fine,” Louis answers easily.

Harry studies him through squinted eyes. “You will?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs.

“Just like that?”

Louis hums in reply, studiously fiddling with the chop sticks and the napkins, shooting Harry infuriating, weirdly pleased glances. “You asking for my help. A favour. Never thought I’d see the day,” he smiles. Not nicely.

“You’re not the only one,” Harry clips, taking a large swig of his wine.

Louis’ cocktail arrives rather speedily as Harry thrums his fingers atop the table, determinedly not making eye-contact with Louis now, who seems to have switched to acting far too comfortable and blasé about this whole thing, sipping on his high-top cocktail delicately. It’s a tad distracting, if Harry’s honest. He clears his throat. But that’s not happening. Absolutely not. Louis would punch him before he ever kissed him again.

Harry sighs, getting more impatient as time wears on. Louis continues to suck on his straw, eyes curiously scanning around the room. Then the starters turn up and Louis gets down to nibbling.

Now Louis has apparently agreed to this, shouldn’t they be getting their story straight? People are definitely going to be asking about _how_ they broke up when they get word of the two of them and their fake history (almost fake).

If they end up saying different things they might as well admit defeat right now. And Harry will have to let himself be torn to shreds and drown in a bath of alcohol, alone and broke.

But Harry won’t let that happen. He never lies to his mother, and she can’t know he’s started now. Especially since he knows she always liked Louis. And that’s unacceptable.

No, there has to be a good enough reason they’re no longer a couple.

The time for brainstorming is now.

“Louis,” he starts, making a face at the sight of the other man stuffing a prawn cracker messily into his gob. His big gob. Lips shiny and red and—oh, god.

Harry shifts in his seat and abruptly crosses his legs, clad in extremely tight leather trousers. Under no circumstances is he permitting himself to leave this table within the next ten minutes. (Not unless he wants to die of humiliation by public boner.)

“Yes, your highness,” Louis quips, mumbles through his obnoxious munching that is decidedly more attractive than it should be.

“Can you stop eating for one second, please?”

“I’m hungry and we’re sitting in a Chinese restaurant. What do you expect me to be doing? Honestly,” he says, rolling his eyes as he picks out another prawn cracker, nibbling on it daintily, before shoving it right in. “Fancy a spring roll? Chicken balls?” he offers with a smirk.

“Jesus,” Harry mutters, closing his eyes and shielding them with his hand in exasperation. Louis continues to munch contentedly. Harry does kind of want one now. “Look, we’re kind of short on time, so can you just—“ Harry groans loudly when the waiter comes over and sets down their meals. “Sorry, that wasn’t aimed at you,” he rushes out quickly, shooting a wide smile at the man, who seems to be pleased by Harry’s brief attention and Harry smiles back coquettishly. “Thank you so much.”

“Enjoy your meal,” the waiter grins, eyes rather sparkly. "Let me know if I can get you anything else."

“Thanks,” Harry smiles.

Louis coughs loudly.

Harry glares.

Once their food is set down properly, Louis tucks into his seafood and fried crispy noodles, casting Harry curious glances as he manages to collect and eat a noodle with perfect precision, slurping it into his mouth with a grace Harry wasn’t aware was possible with fucking noodles. It’s always a war and a half when Harry attempts to eat them neatly.

Harry picks at his own beef goulash with soup. “Can I speak now?” he asks on a slurp.

“I don’t know,” Louis says, leaning back in his seat, nimble fingers entwined with his napkin. His eyes are so blue, Harry notices not at all dreamily, just how he remembers, “can you?”

“ _Yes_ , if you’d let me get a bloody word out,” Harry grits, holding his chop sticks rather tightly.

“Alright, keep your flamingos on.” Louis rolls his eyes. Harry wants to poke them out with his friggin’ chop sticks. Even if they are bluer than an ocean off a Caribbean island. Harry happens to like this shirt. He won’t have his flamingos insulted.

“So my mum will want to question you pretty much from the get-go when she finds out, will probably demand to know why she didn’t know, when exactly we dated and for how long and what happened,” Harry pops a cube of beef into his mouth, ignoring the way Louis seems to be watching him now, “and we need to figure out a consistent, believable story, and stick to it.”

Louis nods along, taking a sip of his cocktail. “Yup. Okay, Captain.”

Harry does the same with his wine because, fuck, this is already exhausting and this bloody five-day wedding hasn’t even begun yet. Harry wipes the growing sweat off his forehead and gulps down a huge mouthful of wine. He has Louis’ rapt attention at last. He kind of feels a bit fidgety under the intensity of his blue gaze.

But, anyway.

“Right, so here’s the thing.” Harry picks at the tablecloth, reaching for his glass again. “My cousin’s wedding is going to be jam-packed with my distant relatives, all of which mostly include a shit load of cousins to second cousins, to cousins, third, twice removed, or something—look, I don’t know how it works, or the specific terms—I just know that everyone who’s confirmed as a guest are currently coupled-up. If you can believe that.”

“Oo-kay,” Louis drawls, brows pinching. “I’m starting to understand you’re finally getting to the explanation for this farcical plan.”

“That you’ve agreed to.” Harry reminds him. Louis makes a stupid face. “No, it's...they’re _all_ married, Louis. Engaged or in long-term relationships. And other than me and my goddaughter—who’s eighteen months old, by the way—I'm _literally_ the only single person in my age group. Fuck, even amongst the older relatives I have, I’m the one without someone. My _sister_ is married now, too,” he whines.

“Oh, really?” Louis cuts in, eyebrows shooting up, appearing rather... well, _pleased._ Genuinely. “Aw, I’m happy for Gemma.” Harry pauses momentarily, taken aback. His chest warms at Louis' interest. "I always liked her."

"Yeah, thanks. Her and Sam are really happy together."

"I'm glad," Louis smiles, chewing.

"—yeah," Harry says, a bit dazed, before he's launching back into his rant. "And look, I am _not_ going to this ridiculous week-long wedding to put up with constantly being called “Bridget” at every fucking opportunity, alright?” he hisses, vaguely aware that the volume of his voice has risen significantly. “Or else I _will_ be drinking myself into oblivion to fucking get through it all and end up in hospital for alcohol poisoning on the eve of Matty’s wedding, ruin his stag night and single-handedly ensure I become even more of a ‘family disappointment’ everyone says I am behind my back.” Harry takes a much needed breath, exhales, and shoves what’s left of the spring rolls into his mouth, screwing his eyes shut in despair, crumbs spraying everywhere. “It’s just so unfair!” he mumbles. He must look like and very much sound like an absolute human car crash right now, Louis’ eyes unblinking, a prominent crease between his raised brows. “Okay, so I’m twenty-six now. But fuck! How is that past it? Why is this suddenly the age everyone’s getting worried I’m going to die alone? Why is society—and by ‘society’, I’m mostly referring to my own family—so hell bent on making me feel like a failure of epic proportions because I’ve only just scraped the money to move out of my mum’s and into a shoebox-sized flat? I’m barely capable of making sure I feed myself properly, for Christ’s sake! I’ve already managed to kill the fucking goldfish I bought,” he sobs, helping himself to a scoop of Louis’ noodles. “Toby!” Louis just stares, still unblinking. “I forgot to feed it! So what makes everyone think I’m a real, proper grown-up who should have an engagement ring on my finger by now, or a mortgage, and plans to adopt a few kids already? I mean, really? What is that?”

Harry chews the last of another roll and washes it down with more wine, a pitiful grimace stuck to his face, suddenly feeling horrifically embarrassed and generally like shit. That stew hasn’t sat quite well with his stomach. Or perhaps the churning in there is really just his body’s woe for his pitiful existence. “God,” he wails, tipping his head back.

When he’s got to grips with the fact he’s just had a nervous breakdown in the middle of a lovely, pink and coral decorated Chinese restaurant with several pairs of bewildered eyes staring at him, he settles his gaze back upon Louis.

“Well. That was definitely something, I must say.” Louis sits up, leaning his folded arms atop the table. “I thought I was starting to become pretty pathetic but thank you for making me feel just a little better about my own state of mind, Harry. Thank you, really,” he deadpans.

“What?” Harry sniffs, frowning.

“Honestly!” Louis breaks into a grin, laughing heartily and slumping back into his seat. “If you could have heard yourself through all that. Wow. _Wow._ I should have recorded that mess and played it back to you as a kick up the backside,” he quips.

“Excuse me?”

Harry is so offended. He’s so close to really shoving his chop sticks somewhere where the sun don’t shine.

“You!” Louis is still grinning like that. And it’s unnerving.

“What about me?” Harry protests. “I just spilled my guts out and you’re making fun of my sad excuse of a life?”

“You need to tone the fuck down on the dramatics, mate, or we’re not going to work as a believable story at all. And I don’t have the energy for it. I’m twenty-eight and you don’t see me laying down in the middle of traffic, do you? Get a grip, you silly sod.”

Harry makes a disgruntled noise. “Well. We’re hardly the same,” he says, pouting. “You’ve got some amazing fashion career down in London, haven't you? What have I got?”

Louis levels him with an unmoved look. “I work as a personal assistant for a male model, who happens to be my best friend. He hired me. I sometimes do photoshoots on the side myself, and I get given free clothes, yeah. But I’m hardly on a catwalk in Milan, Harry.”

“You get to go to fashion shows, though, yeah? See the original, unique designs in the flesh? For free?”

“Well... Yeah.”

“That’s so awesome, Lou.”

 _Lou_. Harry freezes at the easy way the nickname rolled off his tongue. He hasn’t called him that in years. Louis seems to realise this too by the way his hand has abruptly stopped tapping the table.

“So why fake exes?” Louis says now, apparently eager to get back to what Harry is asking. “Why not just pretend to go out with me?”

“Too messy.”

Louis raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Well, at least if we say we’re exes, we won’t have to do anything much to prove it,” Harry explains.

Isn’t it obvious? Pretending to be a couple and trying to seem genuine about it isn’t going to be just for the wedding. His mother will want Louis around afterwards. She’ll never let it go. It could on forever. It’s too much hassle for Harry to deal with. They’d have to stage a fake break-up as well. It’ll be a whole performance that could last weeks. He’d pass out from the stress.

“Just a few uncomfortable glances or murderous glares, depending on what our story is, and that’s it. We won’t have to talk to each other, or even acknowledge each other at all.”

“No staged make-out sessions, or getting caught half-dressed in the toilets, then? What a shame,” Louis smirks.

Harry narrows his eyes at him, cursing the way his cheeks are heating up against his will. “Fake exes is far more efficient and smarter than fake boyfriends. It’s a complicated disaster waiting to happen. It’s too elaborate of a lie to pull off, alright? And it’s _you_. It’s hardly going to be difficult for us to act like we aren’t exactly fond of each other to come across as exes,” he scoffs.

Louis rolls his eyes, like he’s over this topic and sighs, long and suffering, even adding in a brief shake of his head. “Why are you acting like we were blood enemies at uni, or something?”

“What?”

“We were _friends,_ Harry." Louis' eyes are intense, resolute; like he's trying to make Harry remember something he thinks he's forgotten. "You were my best friend,” he says quietly.

Harry feels like all the air has suddenly been sucked out of the room, nerves that are already basically in tatters electrocuted by the sheer _hurt_ in Louis’ soft spoken voice.

Twist the knife in deeper, why doesn’t he?

Harry tries to form words, but all that comes out is, “I know.”

Louis keeps his gaze lowered, blindly reaching for his cocktail. He takes a sip. “Fine,” he says after a moment, swiping his fringe away from his eyes with delicate fingers. Harry has to make himself look away when he lingers on the action for too long. Much too long. “Can’t imagine how it would work, anyway. _Us_ ,” he snorts, widening his eyes in disbelief. “Disaster waiting to happen, isn’t it?”

A twinge of something uncomfortable coils in Harry’s stomach.

“So, what’s our story going to be?”

“Wait, what do you mean by that?”

“By which part?” Louis asks, confused.

“Why can’t you imagine us pretending to date?" _Or us dating at all? Is that why you left?_  "You’re the one who seems put-out that you won’t be kissing me,” Harry pouts. He’s really a child. See? Mature adult? Where is one?

“We just wouldn’t mesh,” Louis says simply. Harry is insulted. “It’d fall apart immediately. Performance art would be an accurate description of what we’d put on, probably,” he cocks his head. “But an embarrassing mess, for sure.” He starts to chuckle. Hard.

He’s a bit overly sure about that, isn’t he? Harry feels extremely offended. _Again._

“God, I’m not that much of a monster am I?” He hasn’t dated anyone properly in a good few months but he wouldn’t say he’s _that_ hard come by in gaining admirers. That waiter liked him. (Alright, so no one in six months, but who’s counting?)

“If you’re fishing for compliments, you’re not getting them from me, Styles,” Louis grins.

“Clearly not,” Harry grumbles.

Before they can discuss the in’s and out’s of Harry’s ridiculous idea, the waiter comes back over and takes away their finished meals, leaving them a dessert menu and another lingering smile for Harry, who can only seem to stare at Louis.

“Right, so how about we talk break-up scenarios over a mango pudding?” Louis says perkily, nose already hidden in the menu.

Harry finds his gaze powerlessly fixated on Louis’ concentrated, curious brows studying the desserts intently, aware of a thick, unidentifiable, muddled dip in his belly as he knocks back another glass of wine, throat suddenly extremely dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FOUR BABIES *SOBS INTO MUG OF TEA*
> 
> ALSO KEEP STREAMING BACK TO YOU!!! DO IT FOR LOUIS, THAT RAY OF SUNSHINE!! :D (What a bop, right?)
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts so far?! :) xx


	3. Three

 

 _What am I even doing here?_  is what Louis has been repeatedly asking himself—since he walked in to see Harry looking like a page out of the modelling portfolios he has to trudge through daily for Liam. (He says _trudge_ as though he isn’t keen on it.) (He would actually quite happily sift through piles of different shots, sketching his own designs as he goes.) (The Tomlinson Range has a ring to it, if he does say so himself.)

Anyway, Louis’ resolve immediately crumbled the second his eyes caught on Harry, a pinched frown on his face as he waited for Louis to arrive, sitting studiously at the table in the middle of the very pink interior of the restaurant Harry has chosen, prompting a brief flashback of Harry trying on patterned scarves and headbands while out in town, poking an artificial flower—the colour of these walls—behind Louis’ ear with the softest smile plastered to his creamy, dimpled cheeks and snapping a picture of him.

Louis keeps his eyes down, skin buzzing decidedly more aggressively now that he’s let slip a hint that he’s not entirely fine about where they once left things—or according to Harry—where Louis left things, and instead seems to be incapable of thinking about anything other than Harry being more effortlessly attractive than ever (maybe it's the hair), apparently having since been carved from the most quality porcelain and dipped in gold dust and now showing off the jawline to end all jawlines and—

He mentally slaps himself to shake him out of his useless Harry reverie and tucks into his pudding with a distinct air of false nonchalance, internally trying to hold it together (which, he'll be honest, is not going well) letting the mango sorbet dissolve on his tongue, and doing his best to ignore Harry’s beady eyes that are fixed to him, unrelentingly concentrated, like he's trying his hardest to solve an algebra equation, or something. What does Harry even think he’s asking of Louis here? Harry wants them to pretend to be exes? What? How does he think this is a good idea? Does he not realise that they’re almost basically just that anyway? (As much as it gives Louis a wobbly tummy just thinking about it.)

And yet, Louis has agreed to go along with this stupid idea because he couldn’t let Harry ask anybody else, stupidly obsessed with Harry even now, and would probably do just about anything that he asked him to. (Because he’s super clingy like that.)

Meanwhile, Louis is also desperate to keep his cards close to his chest, incessantly wondering why Harry is so irritated by him and just wanting to fix it, to repair what they used to have, what they used to be.

God, he knows just how to pour salt on the wound, doesn’t he?

“Christ’s sake,” Louis mutters under his breath.

“What was that?” Harry asks, brows pinched.

“So," Louis says instead, sudden and a bit too loud, clearing his throat. "What are we saying the reason for the break-up was?"

"Um. I dunno,” Harry coughs, using his fist to jam against his chest. “Something simple, I guess." His gaze drops, eyes looking around vaguely. "We don't want to complicate the story."

"Okay. Like what?"

"It just didn't work out?" Harry shrugs helplessly after an awkward silence, appearing a little under the weather now by the look of his rapidly paling skin. He looks like he's about to be sick.

"Seriously? You're gonna have to do a lot better than that, mate." He sits back in his seat, feet tapping under the table because his anxious streak is freaking the fuck out right now. "Come on. What was it? The dodgy root that led to the crumbling disintegration of our relationship?” Louis says, voice mocking. “The basis for our all-consuming love and affection falling apart all at once!”—Louis feigns despair, throwing a limp hand over his forehead. Harry doesn’t look at all amused—“Just _what_  was the reason for our 'conscious uncoupling', as some idiots would so pretentiously put it, Harold?”

There. Laying the dramatics on thick. Harry won’t suspect a thing. Definitely isn’t going to guess Louis is in any way having an existential crisis over his mad request and generally being in his close proximity. (God, it’s hot in here.) (This cashmere jumper was a mistake.) (Half a mistake.) (Since Harry’s gaze hasn’t stopped floundering over his naked collarbones so far.)

"Did I leave too many dirty pairs of pants lying around? Never did the washing up after multiple requests to do it? Too possessive? Too suffocating with my undying love for you?" Louis says with over-sweetness, smirking.

"You're a prat," Harry deadpans, his expression stony. "Did you know that?"

“Oh, come on, H," Louis prompts, a tad overly fond, probably, smiling brightly at him because he just can't help it.

Louis doesn’t miss the high blush in Harry’s cheeks materializing at that. Interesting observation. He watches keenly as Harry lowers his head, now focused on the coffee he’d ordered for dessert. If Louis’ heart does a little flip-flop because _he_  caused that blush, that’s for himself to know and for himself to keep. “This was your bright idea, Harry, so let’s hear the rest, then. You must have thought about it if you were willing to ask me. Chop, chop. We’ve not got all night, lad.”

Harry continues to stare into his coffee as though it holds the answer to all his problems; which there seem to be quite a few of. Louis can't pretend he's not a bit concerned about him. But pretend to Harry, he will. Though, it’s not like Harry’s shown him anything that would convince Louis he’d appreciate his concern.

The waiter from earlier now brushes past the back of Harry’s chair, eyes on the back of Harry's head, but Harry isn’t taking any notice.

A flare of something mischievous and entirely petty comes over him. “I do have an impeccably toned, disgustingly attractive man waiting for me at home, you know, so if you could hurry this along.” (It’s only Liam. But Harry needn’t know that.)

At that, Louis gets what he wants; Harry instantly glances up from his coffee of secrets and the custard tarts he’s got sitting next to it, untouched. His wide green eyes are unblinking and hand Louis his rapt attention.

Pleased, Louis goes ahead and nicks one off his plate. Harry lets him, studying him with a particularly intense manner that makes Louis’ insides feel all gooey and sludgy at the same time. Louis drops his own gaze, feeling Harry’s eyes burn holes into his skull.

Louis suddenly wishes he knew what he was thinking. He used to know what Harry was thinking even before Harry did.

A blend of jagged sadness and regret spins in his gut, churning, sweat starting to bead around his temples and at the top of his hairline, Harry’s open shirt only increasing the thirst he has for the other man right now; with his creamy, smooth chest; the outline of his defined muscles, the edge of a nip dangerously on the verge of slipping out; the guy is fucking shameless.

And it’s kind of sleazy, Louis thinks—just how  _much_  he’s thinking about what they could have got up to the last time they bumped into each other—the time Louis apparently doesn’t remember.

He can still feel Harry’s moist breath licking at Louis’ sweat slick neck, the weight of Harry's thigh trembling beneath Louis’ hand and the hot, tight—  _Fuck_. He jerks in his seat and a wave of heat rushes to his face. He immediately clears his throat again, louder and more vigorously than he needs to. (It's not the best cover-up he's ever attempted.)

Harry frowns at him, slightly bewildered. 

 _Sort it out, will you,_ Louis thinks.

"Uh, are you alright?” 

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Just, uh." _Can you get anymore embarrassing?_   "Caught my breath," he chuckles. "The sorbet. Makes me cough. Cold things do, I mean. You know.”

Oh, god.

“Okay,” Harry murmurs, frowning deeply.

“So? Come on. Brainstorm for me sometime this evening, will you? I’ve almost finished with me sorbet here.”

Harry fidgets in his seat, rubbing his nose with his knuckles. The familiar sight clenches around Louis’ heart like the soppy man he is. “Nothing too outrageous. We just drifted apart?” he suggests slowly.

Louis has to visibly hold back a grimace. 

 _Drifted apart,_ he says _._ Yeah, and doesn’t Louis know it. 

He wants to ask about the last time Harry remembers their paths crossing. Really, really wants to ask. But if he does, Louis doesn’t exactly fancy another fight again. He just wants to work on them getting along like they used to, bar his own stupid mouth stopping that from happening. Louis just can’t seem to stop putting his foot in it, and Harry takes the bait every time. It’s like Harry has forgotten how or who Louis is completely.

Great. Now he’s bloody sad again.

“What?” Harry asks, brows pulled together, eyes clouding with slight apprehension.

“Nothing,” Louis says after a moment, putting his spoon down and reaching for more wine. He really should of taken Liam’s advice and had a couple of shots to settle his nerves earlier. “Sounds fine to me. Maybe... we got together towards the end of uni, had an argument over what would be happening after graduation, but still decided on the long-distance thing, so there was tension already. It worked for a couple of years, kinda, but it didn’t work out. We got too distant so we ended completely after another year. That adds up, right? Deal?”

Harry quiets for an excruciating length of time, decidedly searching Louis’ face for something Louis daren’t think about what it is he’s looking for.

Maybe Louis’ story is a little too close for comfort, perhaps. Or maybe it’s just Louis reading too much into things as usual. Especially where Harry is concerned. He never did get over that habit.

“Yeah. Deal,” Harry says finally, voice firm. “So it’s been two years since we broke up,” he thinks aloud, eyes working through it. “My mum should buy it if we say it was long-distance, and she didn’t know about it because it all happened while I was living in London for a bit—”

Louis freezes, ears perking up acutely. What did he just say? “Sorry, wait a minute," he laughs. "You lived in London?” 

“Um... “ Harry trails off. “Yeah, for a bit,” he says quietly. “I, uh, stayed with my sister... on and off, for months at a time. Tried to get work at local newspapers and things like that. It didn’t really come to anything so I moved back to Manchester properly about two years ago.”

Louis stares at him, knocked for six, heartbeat somewhere in his throat. Harry seems to have paled further. Louis imagines he doesn’t look much different himself. “You never said,” he gets out on a thick swallow.

Harry looks genuinely confused. “Why would I?" he says after a long pause. "We weren’t speaking at the time.”

A spike of irritation fills Louis. “No. We  _were_ speaking. Neither of us bothered to talk to each other, that’s all.”

“That’s the same thing,” Harry counters weakly.     

“It’s not,” Louis barely whispers, eyes flicking downward, staring sightlessly at his empty plate, at the runny, orangey-yellow sauce smeared over his dish, his spoon precariously balanced atop it, on the precipice of sliding off it completely and clattering onto the tablecloth, staining the pristine white.

Several moments of stilted, heady silence pass before he hears Harry politely ask, “Excuse me? Yeah, can we have the bill, please? Thanks so much,” his voice devoid of any unsteadiness, seemingly sounding fine.

Louis isn’t fine.

If he were being painfully honest, he probably hasn’t been truly  _fine_  in about five years, stuck with the feeling that something was missing, however successful he got beyond his initial, realistic hopes.

They didn't fall out, is what Louis knows. And that's why he can't understand how they've got here.

“Louis?” comes Harry's quiet, tentative voice.

“Yeah?” Louis sighs sadly. When he looks back up, he’s surprised to find Harry’s face balancing on the edge of shattered composure. Oh, shit... Louis knows  _that_  look. “Don’t you dare cry on me, Harry.”

Harry sniffs once, cheeks and temples dusted in cerise, his bottom lip quivering minutely.

“I mean it,” he says, attempting to maintain a level of firmness, because  _no_. He will not sit here while Harry sobs in public over their messy past. Or rather, the silent mess that keeps on coming back to pull them back in again.

To pull Louis in again.

“I’m not crying,” Harry mutters stubbornly, eyes glassy as he runs his fingers repeatedly through the short strands of his milk chocolate hair, sniffing again, exhaling shakily. "Why do you always think I'm crying?"

He's such a brat and Louis' heart clenches with fondness because that's his _Harry._ This is _his_ Harry. Suddenly feeling a watery smile coming on, Louis darts his eyes away, swallowing down the rising lump in his throat, one that’s not been given permission to push up his long-since repressed emotions; ones he's managed to shove to the darkened pits of his withered soul that is plastered in intangible images of Harry like a right bleeding stalker.

“Because you always cry."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do. I know you. And you're bloody about to cry, and I’m telling you now, I will not appreciate the waterworks if you do."

Harry stares at him with large, glassy eyes, gathering up more and more moisture. 

“Harry,” Louis warns, just as the waiter comes back over to hand them the bill.

“I’ll pay,” Harry suddenly splutters, rubbing at his eyes with his fist. He looks like a lovely, sleepy baby. God. Louis wants to hold him. Wants to hug him. They haven't hugged in years.

“No, you bloody won’t," he accidentally snaps.

“Let me at least pay half,” Harry argues. “Or at least let me pay for what _I_ ordered?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Harry demands.

“Because I’m the one who ordered all the starters and shit. I’ll take care of it.”

“Do you think I’m that broke that I can’t afford to cover a dinner?”

“Yes,” Louis says bluntly.

Harry blinks at him. Then, “Fuck,” he grumbles, looking away, blushing furiously. And Louis' not trying to make Harry feel bad about his financial situation, of course he's not, but still, the other man sits in petulant silence, arms folded to his chest like a disgruntled toddler as Louis pays for both of them.

“Thank you. I owe you, yeah?” he says more evenly when Louis puts his wallet away, adjusting the collar of his jumper, skin prickling as Harry’s gaze momentarily lingers.

“Don’t worry about it, Harry.”

“No, really—”

“Look, you can put down the tip, then, yeah?” Louis relents.

“Alright,” Harry reluctantly agrees. “But, um. You know about me paying you for  _this_ —”

“Don’t be stupid. I don’t want money for essentially doing nothing but agree with someone who asks me if we used to date,” Louis says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Honestly, Harry. What do you think I am?”

“You don’t want anything?” 

“No, course not, you numpty,” Louis scoffs, letting himself smile, and he was right to, since Harry relaxes instantly, smiling tentatively back at him.

It makes Louis feel so much lighter and... Jesus. This is so unnecessary. Why are they both such disasters at this? Why is this so weird? They're going back and forth and blowing hot and cold like yo-yo's.

“So you’re just gonna help me? Just like that? You don’t want anything in return at all? You’re actually going to entertain my stupid, quarter-life crisis over being single?  _Really_?” Harry gives him a dubious look, as if he's waiting for the non-existent punch line Louis' going to spring on him.

“Somehow I don't think this is all just about you being single, Harry, but you seem confused by me agreeing to help you out?"

“Well... yeah," Harry says, like it's obvious to anyone in a fifty-mile radius. "I am a bit. I thought you'd need more persuading. Me offering to clean out your whole house, or something."

Louis gives him an irritated sideways glance. "Are you serious?" What on earth would make Harry think that Louis almost basically _hates_  him, for god's sake? “Harry," he says, tone on the verge of exasperation, "consider it a favour between old friends, yeah? It’s really not a big deal, so don’t make it into one.”

Harry’s pouting. He knows he is, without even having to look over at him to check. He knows him too well. And lo and behold, when Louis does meet his eyes, Harry is indeed sporting a massive pout, plump red lip protruding and everything.

Another flash of affection pools warmly in his chest until he glances down and sees the phone number written on the back of his receipt. _Call me, Green Eyes,_ it says underneath. Cheesy... “Oh, Jesus,” Louis scoffs, scowling down at it. “That’s just... embarrassing.”

“What is it?” Harry asks.

Louis chucks the number at Harry, it clearly being meant for him. “Our waiter certainly took a shine to you, love,” he says wryly.

Harry looks at the bit of paper, confused. “Oh, right.” He folds it up and hands it back to Louis without another word.

Louis blinks at him, curious.

Harry blankly looks back at him. “Okay, so. I guess, if that’s it? I’ll text you the story again so we both know it, and I’ll... I suppose I’ll just see you at the wedding, then?” Harry remains sitting, clearly has no idea what to do with his hands atop the table, eyeing Louis closely.

“Uh. Yeah. See you Wednesday, yep. For brunch, was it?"

"Yeah, um, for half-eleven. Matty's mum's sent out an itinerary by email to the guest list. She's really on the ball. Everything has to be perfect down to the exact minute." Harry faintly rolls his eyes.

"Itinerary?" Louis' dreading this already. "For like, different get-togethers and things?"

“Yeah,” Harry says absently, thumb pressing into his lip. "Lunches and dinners and then the rehearsal on Friday. You don't have to attend them all, obviously. And not every one of the guests will be there for the first couple of days if they couldn't get off work. But, yeah. I guess it's quite posh, or whatever. Not Matty's idea, but he doesn't have much of a choice," he chuckles.

Oh, super.

“Um. But we can’t talk to each other there, remember? Just shoot me a few awkward glances now and again. Niall’s gonna plant the story in one of my cousin’s heads beforehand, who's a complete gossip. He’ll have told everyone about 'my secret ex'," Harry quotes in a low, sarcastic voice, "before I’ve even got in the bloody car.”

Louis nods. “Right," he breathes out. "Okay. Sorted, then.” He claps his hands and shoots out of his chair.

Harry gets up a beat after, brushing the thighs of his tight leather trousers which are sin personified. Louis’ weak heart can’t take this now; what on earth is he going to be like when Harry’s dressed in a fancy suit(s) that’s probably going to be wholly ostentatious and tinged with flamboyance and showy beyond belief. God, he’ll probably turn up in fucking white and upstage the bride. Not spitefully, of course not. But it’d be just like him. The messy bastard. And he’ll get away with it because Harry’s too cute to be mad at.

Where will Louis be then?

On the brink of a breakdown, probably, camping out in his hotel room and desperately trying not to wank off the entire time he’s there.

Harry's standing on the spot, still looking at him and making no move to leave. Louis lingers on the slender cut of his flamingo patterned shirt, the way it clings to Harry's torso, cataloguing the unbelievably tight fit of his leather trousers. Then he lets himself really look at Harry's hair. His new short hair. Curls barely existent but still so lovely. Makes him look so much more grown up, and Louis' chest constricts at that. At the years he's lost seeing Harry grow up, even out from that gangly and slight twenty-one year old, hair shoulder-length and curling like ringlets. 

"Your hair looks great, by the way. I don't think I said. It really suits you,” Louis tells him, letting himself smile.

Harry stares at him with huge green eyes, plump lips barely parted. He runs a hand through it, cheeks reddening. "Oh, um. Thanks. I was thinking of growing it out again, actually."

"Oh, well. It's nice as it is currently. Just thought I’d say. I know how self-conscious you used to be of it after a trim."

“Oh.” Harry nods, almost shyly. "Yeah. Thanks," he says again, quiet. Louis bounces on his heels and swivels around to face the exit. “Um. Louis?”

“Yeah?” Louis turns around.

Harry stills, Louis half-aware of the loud murmurings and goings-on around them in the restaurant. Harry seems to be mentally bracing himself, taking a slight breath before he says, “You were mine, too.”

“What’s that?” Louis utters softly.

“My best friend,” Harry says, trying to come off nonchalant. The tremor in his voice defeats that objective.

Louis stares, pulse sky-rocketing.

“I just—I wanted you to know that, you know, um—just, uh—yeah. Just in case you didn’t think you were. Um. Yeah,” he breathes, a timid smile sweeping over his features, a hint of sadness woven into its otherwise seamless curve, cheeks kissed crimson.

Louis nods delicately, their eyes locked and barely breathing.

“Are we going, then?” Louis asks abruptly, because the air has suddenly gotten extremely thick; far too heady than he's comfortable with and he can’t deal with all these conflicting emotions right now.

“Oh. Yeah, um. I just need to call a cab.” Louis watches Harry fumble to take out his phone, fingers slow.

“We can share one?” he suggests blindly.

Harry glances up, eyes noticeably widening. “Yeah?” he says, tone unsure.

“Yeah, why not?” Louis shrugs. “We’re both going up the same way. It’d be silly to wait for separate ones. So why don’t we just both—”

“Okay,” Harry says abruptly. “I mean—uh, yeah. That makes sense.” His cheeks are still a touch pink. Louis warms.

“Right, then. Let’s got wait outside, shall we?” Louis says once Harry has called for a cab.

He aggressively pretends his palms aren’t sweating profusely over simply sharing a backseat with Harry.

(And definitely does  _not_  imagine the NSFW things he could do with Harry in an alternate universe in the backseat of a car.)

(Because that’s just...  _exactly_  what he’s thinking.)

**

The coffee machine light blinks red in the kitchen before Harry switches on the lights, revealing the pallid, washed-out walls of his regrettably dusty, tiny flat; smothered in band posters and sticky notes and scribbled ideas; half-drained coffee cups and mugs lying around; the carpet stained and somewhat grey but spongy enough to sink his bare feet into.

Harry slumps down onto the floor, stretching his limbs out starfish-style, fingertips nearly touching the edge of the sofa. He whimpers to himself, screwing his eyes shut.

Because Louis, at the very least, now knows Harry is still hot for him after that diabolical misreading of a situation.

He’s mortified.

It was going well, all (ridiculous) things considered. The cab ride was quiet at first, but somehow it wasn’t awkward. Louis kept making snide comments about the radio’s selections that made Harry snigger into his fist, especially when the driver got rather jokingly offended, and ended up completely charmed by Louis in seconds.

Harry was aware of the feeling; all too familiar with it, in fact.

Then came the end of the journey, the cab stopping outside Harry’s flat first.

“Okay, this is me,” Harry said, stating the obvious, wanting to yet again prolong the alone time he had with Louis.

“It appears it is, Styles,” Louis replied, a smirk lingering across his red wine-stained lips.

Harry stared at them dazedly, barely registering what he was doing, following his gut instinct and merely reacting how he always did when he was around Louis.

A real wonder boy.

The next thing Harry knew, Louis was leaning towards him, reaching over his lap, their faces so close to touching, and without thinking, a moment of madness, Harry leaned in, their lips inches away from each other, when Louis suddenly jerked back.

“Um, I was—uhhh, I—” Louis stammered. “I was just opening the door for you.“ His eyes were wide and startled, a sight Harry was getting used to by now. “Sorry, it was an awkward position, anyway. I don’t know why I—”

“No, no!” Harry rushed out. “It’s fine. My mistake! I don’t know what I thought you were even doing,” he practically shrieked, scrambling on the leather seating, that rubbed against his own leather trousers in his haste to exit the car and get the fuck out of there.

He did. Without another word, he yanked the door open to his building and sprinted up the stairs, not daring to look back out of the window below.

It wasn’t until he laid down on the floor like a person ready to be ended, that he realised he hadn’t paid for his part of the cab ride.

“You’re such a stupid, bloody idiot,” he says to himself now, covering his face with his hands and wishing, not for the first time, that he could rewind.

Then he reaches for his phone, because he needs to talk about this.

He needs to talk about why he’s so intent on making his life more difficult. It's an art, honestly. And he's the Best™ at it.

Harry's chin meets his chest, eyes falling to the patch of dried soup stuck to his skin, even to the three hairs on his chest. He squints, frowning at himself. "Fuck's sake," he breathes.

(A Hot Flaming Mess™)

“Yo," comes Niall's unforgiving boom.

“Don’t say ‘yo’, Niall,” he says, mind swimming with a contradictory bunch of emotions, mostly consisting of _LouisLouisLouisLouis_  and  _you’re a fucking idiot_ and  _why can’t you ever not be embarrassing for once in your life?_

“Yolo.”

"What?"

"Yolo," he repeats, louder. There's music thumping in the background. He must be in some club or bar, or something.

“Shush.”

“I think it should be brought back.”

"No."

"Might get it as a tattoo. My first one. What do you reckon, pet?"

“No,” Harry groans.

“What’s up, then? You're rudely interrupting my fine evening of drinking myself stupid."

Harry sighs. "Sorry, Niall. I'll go in a minute—"

"Nah, don't be silly, I'm only messin' with ya. I’ll find somewhere quieter to talk. Quiet-ish.”

"It’s just, um... I just needed to talk about something. Well... about _someone_. Um. I just, uh. I just... sort of embarrassed myself in front of... um, Louis. For like, the millionth time,” he grumbles into his phone, squirming on the floor because these trousers are baking hot.

“Louis? Oh, right.” He can hear Niall’s surprise and silent question of,  _When were you with Louis?_

“I invited him out to dinner. Not—not like a date!” he stumbles over himself to clarify. “I meant like... well, it was partly because I thought we should clear things up—which didn’t even remotely happen and ended up making things even more complicated—and partly because I needed to ask him a favour.”

“Which was?” Niall says suspiciously.

“Well, you know how you suggested I pretend Louis is my ex the other day? I'm doing that.”

“You actually asked him?”

“Yeah... Was I... was I not supposed to?”

“Nah, I mean... It’s your life,” Niall answers, his tone a bit strange. "But I didn't think you'd ask him directly. What did he say?"

"He said yes. And what did you think I was going to do? Hope no one went up to Louis and asked him themselves?"

There's a few odd beats of silence from Niall on the other end. Harry waits, puzzled. “Um... Are you going to say anything else? Your voice sounded weird then.”

“Yeah, uh. Maybe... I shouldn’t have suggested you ask Louis. Maybe you should have asked someone else? Like, won’t it make things more awkward?”

“No? Because things with Louis are iffy already, and there’s history there, you know that. So it fits." He pauses, frowning. "Why are you backtracking now? What’s changed?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, wow. I’m convinced.”

“No..." Niall blows a raspberry, prompting Harry to squint indignantly, veins thrumming with an energy he doesn't even know how to describe; only aware of  _whom_  caused it.

Harry lets his eyes flutter closed, allowing brief flashes of Louis to crawl into his mind, prying it open with his fingers and burying himself there.

(As if he isn't there already. Always has been.)

There's stretched out quiet again, save for the vibrations and the indecipherable lyrics of a remix in the background. Harry absently lets it soak into his tipsy cells, shifting and slumping onto his stomach, face resting against his folded free arm.

Then Niall asks what Harry's dreaded him asking him for a while now.

"Haz, can I ask you something?” Niall half-shouts, the music somehow even louder. Why he's chosen this moment as the one he decides to ask Harry this, he has no idea. Perhaps he thinks Harry has a decent amount of alcohol in his system and a strong enough sense of self-pity to want to spill his secrets.

Niall’s a sly player.

“Um... depends on what it is...” he replies cautiously, slowly, because this is a dangerous game and Harry really isn't sure he wants to play it. Not with how fragile he feels at the moment.

“Did you used to date Louis at uni? Like, on the down-low, without any of us boys knowing? You did share a room.”

“No!” Harry shrieks, a tad delayed. Damn it.

“Jesus! You just destroyed my hearing, you twat!”

“Sorry,” he says quietly. "Though with that racket going on, I'm surprised you've not lost your hearing already," he then grumbles.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

No one says anything again. And look, Harry really wasn’t planning on ever telling anybody about it. Ever. (Okay, so Gemma knows, but that’s it). It was something he'd long-since buried and come somewhat to terms with and he’s gone this long without it coming out, but... maybe he does need to tell someone, to be able to talk about it, since it’s slowly eating him alive.

Oh, god. Here goes.

“Okay. Um. Shit. I’ll tell you," Harry grimaces.

“I’m listening.”

Harry takes a shaky inhale and breathes out slowly. “I slept with Louis on the night of our graduation.”

“Holy fucking shit balls," is Niall's immediate, articulate and fair response.

“And the next morning... I woke up and he was gone.”

He’d woken up so sleepily happy, expecting cuddles and a more proper conversation with his best friend than he’d had in so long; maybe even a lazy morning, second round.

But all Harry found next to him was a cold and empty side of the bed.

And Louis didn’t come back, no matter how long he waited that morning. He’d laid there, stayed in bed until midday when finally, with teary, red-rimmed eyes and a gaping hole in his chest, he forced himself up and took a long shower, washing away every trace of Louis on him.

So, yeah, that’s a cheerful memory. Lovely.

“Ah.”

“Turned out he was moving to London. I found out from his mum after bumping into her randomly at Tesco,” Harry remembers, shaking his head, “and she told me he had this new job lined up, confused as to why I didn’t know. He planned it all without mentioning a word to me, Niall.”

“But you guys were having... issues by the end of third year, right? I know I said I thought you got on better again towards the end of uni, but. You really hadn't. There was something off. I know these things, Harry. You were both acting all quiet and hesitant around each other, and you definitely weren’t hanging out as much."

“Yes we were,” Harry protests. “We did everything together. He was my—”

_You were my best friend._

Louis’ words echo, reverberating off the walls of his brain. He swallows hard, a rising lump in his throat. And... yep, his eyes are now stinging, hotly. Brilliant. What a wreck he is. “We were fine.”

“No, you really weren’t, Harry. I remember how Louis was. And you. You were both miserable those last few months. That’s why it was such a surprise to see you guys laughing and having a really good time that night. Now I know where you ended up—”

“Alright,” Harry relents, closing his eyes, dragging the heel of his free palm over his eyelids.

He knows they weren’t fine. And he knows why. Why Harry pulled away. Why Louis did.

Because he was on his own in it. Harry knew it after that Valentine’s party. God, that was a night and a half. He can still smell the hangover he had the next morning, reeking of heartbreak and sour shots.

“I, um... I might have another confession, Niall,” he whispers, clutching his hand to his chest.

“Go on, Harry,” Niall says softly, almost knowingly, if Harry didn’t know him any better. He seems to have moved to the toilets, judging by the slight echo on his end.

He takes a deep breath and tells the truth. It's about time.

“I was in love with him.” Harry lets out a pathetic whimper and rolls onto his side in a complete sorry heap.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Niall agrees wearily.

Well, then. There you go. Even Niall knows it’s a lost cause.

“That’s why I started to get distant with him. I didn't want to,” he insists. “But... I was all over the place. I didn’t know what to do with myself or how to react to what I’d realised, or how to... be with him. Normally. Platonically, you know?" he murmurs bitterly. "If we ever even were. I mean, like... we’d kissed a few times, right? But—Louis never asked about it afterwards; it was almost like he expected it of me? Like that was just something I did with my friends?" he scoffs incredulously. "That it was just a  _thing_  we’d do," he says, disbelieving even now. ”God, I mean, how could he not have known, Niall? I thought I was being fucking obvious? How could Louis have not guessed?”

Niall sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you, mate. But I honestly don’t think Louis knew a thing. There’s no way he would have left like that if he had. That’s not Louis. You know he wouldn't have done that on purpose. Not if he'd had any idea how you felt. He’s... such a good guy.”

He _knows_ that.

Harry bites viciously on his lip. “Yeah, but. How could we have had such different ideas about what we were doing? I was thinking,  _fuck, this is it. My favourite person likes me back_ , and Louis was thinking, what?  _Goodbye?!”_

He can practically hear Niall cringing through his phone. Then, after another moment, “Do you still love him?”

“What kind of question is that?” Harry retorts, not wanting to answer because... does he?

“Well, that wasn’t an outright no.”

“I don’t know,” Harry wails, kicking his legs up into the air. “I don’t even know, Niall.” He can't think about this right now, and besides, his feet really hurt from his boots. They probably shrivelled up in there. He needs someone to take them off. Massage his feet before tucking him into bed. Ah. That would be lovely. The thought quells any discomfort for a wonderful second.

But.

Oh.

He lives alone.

(Fuck everything.)

"Well, shit. This complicated things," Niall says.

Harry groans and crawls over to the sofa, tucking his legs to his chest and curling into a ball, cheek smushed against the fluffy purple pillows he'd bought at IKEA. Alone. Jesus, he's so pathetic. And lonely. Wow. He'll be singing 'All By Myself' next. What a terrific life he leads.

"But I mean, it's not like we're even going to be interacting at the wedding, right?" he sniffs. "It'll be fine. And then he'll go back to London and carry on living his hectic, amazing life with his ripped, disgustingly attractive boyfriend, and I'll just continue to stumble aimlessly through mine," Harry mumbles miserably. “With no idea where I’m going.”

"Uh, yeah... I guess so," Niall says slowly. "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not a failure, mate. You’re a brilliant writer and a pretty fucking fantastic person, and you're doing your best to stay above water and I'm proud of you," Niall says, voice more tinny and harder to hear now, crackly and blending into the EDM beats once more. But Harry hears him, throat closing up.

Christ. Can’t he have _one_ composed, relaxed moment where he doesn’t feel like crying?!

"It'll get better, yeah? Promise and cross my heart and all that. Happiness is just around the corner. I've seen enough of those rom-coms you've made me sit through to know, alright?" 

Harry snorts through a wet laugh. "Thanks, Niall," he croaks tearfully. 

"Harry? Are you crying again, mate?"

"No."

"Love you."

"Fuck off," Harry smiles wetly, before padding to his room and getting straight into bed, fully-clothed, thankfully going out like a light.

**

Harry wakes up to incessant banging next door, feeling the sheer force of a hammer reverberating against the wall all through his own exhausted body.

And it’s 9:30am on Wednesday morning.

Shit. He’s got two hours to get to the fucking brunch. He hasn't even got his new Sat Nav working yet.

Harry groans as loud as he can, attempting to match the racket and practically crawls out of bed, immediately stripping and getting into the shower. He lets the hot water run down his back and then steps underneath it, very nearly drowning himself under the steaming hot spray that assaults his face.

Luckily, he was prepared enough that he’s packed for the five days, his suit ready and pressed and hanging up on his wardrobe door.

At least he managed that all right—picking it up from the dry-cleaners in time. Barely.

Small victories are sometimes just having the energy to put one foot in front of the other, is what his mum always says. (And not crying yourself to sleep over tripping in the street and landing flat on your arse as a kid points and laughs at your dismay because you’re just so fucking tragic.)

Because Harry suddenly realises he really does _not_ want to go. Even armed with the silly lie he’s going with. There’s a big sign that says ‘NO WAY IN HELL’ taped to his innards, apparently having taken up residence there overnight.

But before he can fake sickness or a bathroom accident, his phone starts buzzing as soon as he hops out of the shower, half-heartedly tying a towel around his waist and out of habit, still tying a towel around his head even though there’s no hair there to twist. (Sad.)

“Yes, mum. I’m up and raring to go!” he yells, feigning overenthusiastic cheer.

“I should hope so, darling. And good morning to you, too. Anyway, I’m not calling to check up on you, even though you are one of the groomsmen and should be first to arrive, even if it is just a brunch, but there’s a couple of people who need a lift to the hotel and since you have a car and you’ll be on your way, I thought you could be helpful and pick them up along the way?”

“Yeah, sure. Who do I have to collect?”

“A few of Matty’s old uni mates?”

“Okay,” Harry nods, rummaging through his chest of drawers for a clean pair of boxer shorts. He drops his towel and puts his phone down on speaker to change.

“Let’s see, um. I have a short list here. Marcus,” she reads out. “George, and Louis. Oh. Louis. Why does that name ring a bell?”

“What?” Harry’s eyes bulge. _Shit_. “Uh, I can’t take Louis. What are you on about? He has his own car, anyway?” He stammers out, sweat beading at his already wet hairline, panicking. There’s something seriously wrong with him.

“Oh, hang on. My mistake. That’s what he told me! I forgot he rang me the other day when I offered,” she chuckles brightly. “Louis,” she repeats fondly. “That’s right. Oh, he was _lovely_. Such a sweet boy. So well mannered. You were good friends at university, weren’t you, love?”

“Um... yeah.” Oh god, he’s not going there. If he speaks too much about Louis, he can forget about what they planned for the next few days. “Mum, look, I gotta get ready if you want me there on time. I’ll see you at the hotel, yeah? Bye.”

“Wait! I’ll text you their addresses, yes? They're not far.”

“Okay, fine. Thank you. Going now!”

Harry hangs up and falls backwards onto his bed heavily, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why he’s even doing this in the first place, focusing on willing the unbecoming fluttering in his stomach away.

He can get through this without falling at Louis’ feet and catastrophically embarrassing himself. Of course he can. He laughs to himself. Because this is ridiculous! They’re not even doing anything! It’ll be easy.

A piece of expensive wedding cake. Yeah. He's just being silly. Harry can handle almost a week of being in Louis' close proximity without catching on fire, right?

(He can only hope and plan his escape from the country if all fails.)

**

The sun is scorching, as is Louis, who makes it just on the dot for the first pre-wedding meal, or event, or whatever this thing is.

Brunch, apparently. (Can no one just wait for lunch?)

His face is flushed and he's sweaty from the drive here as he takes a look outside. It’s surprisingly more laid-back and pleasantly set up in the lush gardens, everyone mostly engaged in chit-chat, some standing in their summer attire and some not, choosing to remain seated in wooden chairs under parasols, sparkling glasses and teacups spread atop the tables, along with baked treats.

It definitely doesn’t seem like Matty’s thing, so Louis’ betting it’s down to his fiancé or her mother’s tastes. Because a wedding that lasts _five_ days? Well, that’s just overkill, if you’re asking Louis. If he ever has a wedding that lasts that long, it will be because it’s one massive bender, making it his mission to visit every pub in London’s vicinity or something.

Drinking out of fancy china and making small-talk at several brunches does not sound like Louis’ idea of fun, thanks. (Unless it’s tea. He can’t say no to tea.)

Louis takes in a weary breath, squinting in the sun and adjusts the collar of his short-sleeved, pale blue shirt, undoing a couple more buttons because the _heat_ —dear god, he might be slowly dying, and his hair must be a sweaty mess by now.

He scans the content faces quickly, still standing awkwardly by the patio doors and feeling totally out of place because he doesn’t recognise anyone here at all. Matty and Beth aren’t even anywhere to be seen yet either and it’s _their_  wedding.

But this is where the Styles’ brunch is meant to be taking place, right? He asked at reception when he checked in. Maybe he should double-check with Harry, though, seeing as he’s feeling highly wound up already and practically gagging for a cold beer in this weather and if it turns out he’s at the wrong bloody place, Harry has got a mouthful of obscenities coming his way.

But he doesn’t need to worry because one of Harry’s cousin’s has just walked inside—the gossip, it looks like—and is already eyeing Louis with rapt, curious attention, whispering in a girl’s ear, who in turn gives Louis a once over and there's a flash of recognition in her widening eyes.

Well, that didn’t take long. Looks like the rumours are already rife and will be spread throughout the whole guest list by the time dinner rolls around.

It’s when he glances behind him that he sees the Styles clan all arriving together, walking through reception with happy smiles on their faces, clad in summery outfits; Matty, Beth, presumably her family in tow, along with Anne, Gemma and her husband, Sam.

And then there’s Harry, hurriedly stumbling into the foyer and panting slightly behind them with two other guys Louis finds familiar.

Harry's eyes find Louis'.

And Louis firmly tells his knees not to buckle.

Because the look Harry’s giving him now is nothing short of hair-raising, his skin tingling and stirring up feelings he’s not experienced for a very long time.

Oh, shit.

These next five days are going to go terribly, aren't they? 

**

Look, Harry’s already sporting a mighty hangover. He may have had too much vodka last night. And he may have invited a few friends over to join him. And he may have been dared to run naked down the street and willingly obliged.

But he'd psyched himself up earlier, and the drive here with Marcus and George and catching up, despite almost arriving late, really helped lift his mood.

But he really did not need to be instantly greeted with Louis’ face the moment he got here, especially not looking like... Well. Like his shirt is clinging perfectly to his curvy waist and slight torso, or wearing a pair of white trouser shorts that are so tight-fitting that they’re making Harry break out in a sweat that isn’t the sun’s doing, or clad in slip-on brogues, his delicate ankles on display. (And Louis makes the look work, the jammy bastard.)

Oh, god. This is torturous. He’s not even allowed to interact with him over the next few days since they’re supposed to be pretending to be exes who hate each other. (Kind of. Harry thinks the hate part is easier. Since he might... anyway.)

And here’s hoping this plan works out anyway, or Harry will still be left feeling miserable about his life and lack of prospects and getting ribbed within an inch of his life.

All while still thinking about Louis; and everyone else thinking about them too.

And then there’s the tiny, insignificant detail that Harry might be willing to attempt to accept the lingering feelings he still harbours for Louis, since his honest chat with Niall on Friday. Maybe. Just a bit.

But no, there’s no use in doing that, so he’s going to stomp that fire out as soon as it starts to flame.

Because Harry may have accepted he’s not over Louis (and hasn’t been this whole time) but it’s not like he can do anything about it now, can he? And any feelings Harry does have? They can't complicate this week.

Louis’ most definitely got a boyfriend at home in London and a life that doesn’t include Harry, and it’s something he’s just going to have to suck up; regardless of whether it all feels like yesterday that he and Louis...

Oh no. His mum’s just seen Louis. Oh my god, she’s walking over to him with open arms?! Shit?

And they're hugging and grinning and laughing like old friends? What the hell?

"What are you doing?" Harry mouths at him incredulously, shooing him away and pointing to outside with his eyes.

Louis smirks at him for a split-second, and Harry hastily diverts his gaze before narrowing his eyes when Louis glances back at him again, appearing far too pleased with himself and... it’s suspicious.

This was so not how this was supposed to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying it so far?? :) Any comments and kudos make my day! Xx
> 
> Now we finally move on to the wedding ;)


	4. Four

 

Harry’s slurped on two gin and tonics and it’s not even gone lunchtime.

Because how can he bloody relax when Louis is over there, beaming from ear to ear and letting his tinkling laughter saturate the humid air in this insufferable heat wave (and Harry’s limited sanity), reeling his mum and her friends in at their table, all quickly falling in love with this fresh, delightful young man who’s taken it upon himself to keep them thoroughly entertained.

All is going smoothly, it would seem, though Harry’s still waiting for the pin to drop. It’s only the first brunch and get-together. There's plenty of time for this to go to hell.

And when Harry saw Louis with his mum in the lobby earlier, he was immediately suspicious, wondering whether this was Louis’ petty revenge all along.

Maybe he's pissed Harry tried to kiss him and is wondering what the hell Harry’s playing at.

Harry's not sure what he’d say if Louis did ask.

(It was a low point.)

But, surprisingly, Louis seems to be genuinely holding up his end of the deal. Favour, whatever. Harry’s relieved, to say the least.

Though he’s also going mad with not knowing what they’re talking about, while ever more grateful for Louis’ presence taking the heat and attention off himself, and it’s looking promising that the ladies over there are going to be fascinated with Louis for the duration of their time here. Thank goodness. (He’ll find an...  _appropriate_  way to thank him later.) (Oh, god. Help him.)

“Oi. What’s got you so glum?” says a voice behind him, bringing him abruptly out his trance consisting of glowing sunshine, a high-pitched, sweet Northern voice, and general godliness that Harry is currently so thankful for.

Apparently, though, his face hasn’t received the memo in outwardly showing his gratitude.

Harry glances up to see Gemma taking a seat next to him, wearing a fitted red summer dress that flows outwards at the knees, flattening the hem of creases before she sits down, clutching a tall flute of champers in her hand.

“Bit early for that, isn’t it?” he comments, nudging her arm. “Alky.”

“Says Mr-Already-Downed-Two-G&T’s.” She raises a smug eyebrow, absently touching her sleek blonde hair.

Harry sticks his tongue out at his sister, but his eyes are helplessly unable to leave Louis alone. Which of course, Gemma notices, instantly following his eyeline over to the table three down from theirs.

“So, Louis came, then?” She turns to look at Harry, gauging his expression. Harry tries to keep it carefully blank, lest she deduce how completely infatuated he still is with him. God knows Gemma had to put up with being bombarded with his whiny, drunken texts during the early hours of many a night—Harry losing his mind over his spiralling feelings for his best friend. (Particularly during that last Valentines’ party before the end of third year.) (We don't talk about that.) Instead, he schools his face into something mostly impassive as he unblinkingly watches Louis and their mother laugh easily.

(Impassive. That screams hostility, right?)

“Mmhmm.” He gives a non-committal nod.

“And how are you feeling about that?” Gemma asks, her tone casual but Harry can still hear how interested she is. “He seems to be getting on like a house on fire with mum. Was she always like this?” She wrinkles her nose.

“Mum always liked him, yeah,” Harry lets slip. His eyes slide to Gemma’s almost guiltily.

“Huh.” Gemma eyes him weirdly and Harry prays she doesn’t prod further. It’s bad enough his mum is currently talking to Louis about god knows what. “So,” she leans back in her seat, taking a sip out of her flute. Harry distantly takes note of the bubbles, bracing himself for whatever she’s about to spring on him. “What’s the deal with you two now? Are you friends again?” Her tone is almost accusatory. Harry frowns. “You know, after the...” She makes a vague gesture with her free hand, widening her eyes suggestively.

Harry snorts, covering up his discomfort of the reminder. “No.”

Gemma stares at him, expectantly waiting for him to elaborate.

Super. Alright, then.

He sighs, pretending he’s about to tell her a life-shattering secret, face grim. Gemma’s face slips somewhere into the Concerned Sister realm. (Harry feels a bit bad.)

“Hey," she says, "What is it, H? What happened?” She sits up eagerly, voice hushed. “I know how you felt about Louis got—intense—”

“We used to date, Gems,” he informs her, feigning misery and making his voice louder. “Yeah. We were in a relationship a while ago, so this is... well, it’s a weird situation to be in."

Oh, it’s definitely weird all right.

“You were  _what_?” Gemma’s eye widen in shock, mouth open on a silent gasp. “I thought you only slept with him a couple times? When was _this_?”

“Ooh! When was what?” His cousin Jamie pipes up, joining in on their conversation excitedly, plonking himself next to Gemma, slurping loudly on his usual rum and coke with a straw. He’s wearing a loud tropical shirt. Harry’s almost proud but it kind of clashes with his shock of red hair.

“Harry and Louis dated,” Gemma hisses, suppressing a grin. 

“Holy shit, I knew it!” Jamie exclaims, clapping a hand over his mouth. “I knew you fancied him. All through uni, you were  _obsessed_  with him, mate. It was always “Louis this,” and “Louis did that" and "oh, Louis likes that,"" he mocks in a lilting voice, fluttering his eyelashes. He snorts. “Niall was bloody right. He told me to watch out for you two.”

Harry sends him a warning glare. Jamie just laughs, tipping his head back. It gathers the attention of a couple more people further down the lawn.

Gemma giggles too. Then, “Though he never said a word to me about it,” she shoots back, expression turning sour, thinking she’s been left in the dark about a significant part of her brother’s life. “So how long ago was this?”

This is working out all too easy, Harry thinks. Nice.

He plasters on another wistful expression, with a touch of bitterness. Which isn’t hard. “It was, uh, when I was staying with you in London, Gem. It was a bit of a long-distance thing.”

“You kept that bloody quiet,” Gemma says, shock still evident on her face. “I mean, it’s hardly surprising. You wouldn't go out with anyone I suggested for you. No wonder you always said no to those guys if you two were carrying on."

“Yeah,” Jamie scoffs, “because now we know he was too busy elbow deep in Louis.” He sniggers, abruptly stopping when Harry and Gemma shoot him disgusted looks. “Sorry,” he clears his throat. “That was a bit gross, weren’t it?”

“Jesus, just a tad,” Gemma scowls, shoving him. “This is my baby brother and your _cousin_ , don’t forget.”

“Second cousin,” Jamie corrects.

“Still _blood_ ,” Gemma says darkly, and turns back to Harry. “Shit, so... This must be more awkward having him here than I thought, eh?”

Harry nods gloomily. “It’s a nightmare. It's hard having Louis here this close, you know?” he says, forlornly and loud enough that other people can definitely hear him if they’re in earshot. And it’s a good job he got this conversation out the way, too, because one of his aunties is now coming over, surely to interrogate him over girlfriends. (Nevermind that Harry’s had to tell her he’s gay at every bloody family get-together for the last three years. You’d think it would have gone in by now. Jesus.)

“Why didn’t you say anything before? I mean, obviously it's your business but, is that why you were making a fuss over the guest list to mum?”

Well, she's right there, and Harry’s about to grumble a response when he’s interrupted by their auntie sitting down with a glint in her eye and Harry takes an inward breath, slathering on a warm smile, hoping she’ll focus on Gemma’s recent marriage and Jamie’s backpacking trip in Thailand rather than Harry’s relationship status.

It’s a futile hope.

“Hellooo, darliiings!” His Auntie Carol squeals, squeezing the three of them to death and receiving half a ton of her makeup and hairspray as well. She really likes a perm, apparently.

They make quick small talk, Harry giving her vague answers until the dreaded matchmaking starts once Harry politely informs her he’s single.

“Ooh. She’s a pretty girl, Harry.” Carol now nudges his side with a wink. Dear god.

“I’m sure she’s a lovely person,” Harry replies. “But she’s not my type, I’m afraid.” And probably related to him somehow.

“Oh, so what do you like, then, darling?” she whispers around a smile. There’s a slither of red lipstick on her teeth. This is so uncomfortable and invasive. Can he just snuff it now?

Harry sits up and purses his lips. “Men.”

Jamie almost bursts with how badly he looks like he wants to laugh. A loud snort comes out of him instead. "Excuse me. Allergies."

He leaves out the specific, tick-off traits that he likes, and absolutely refuses to acknowledge the points are very similar to that of the man sitting with his mother.

Gemma bites her cheek, smirking into her flute, holding back a laugh.

“Oh,” his auntie yelps after a delayed moment, falling into nervous laughter, looking at Harry like she's a deer caught in headlights. “That’s... that’s lovely, dear.”

He’s told her this every single time they’re at one of these things. Harry’s not sure if she’s just refusing to accept it or if she should see a doctor about her worsening memory.

Harry takes a gulp of the fresh glass of wine that’s put down onto the table. “Yep,” he smiles happily, eyes lingering back on Louis.

Carol doesn’t let it end there, though. She asks question after question, droning on and on, so much so that even Gemma and Jamie are looking extremely uncomfortable with their aunt’s interrogation.

Finally, Harry finds an edge way into the conversation.

“Auntie Carol, um... look." He tries his hardest to keep his patience, smiling as nicely as he can manage as he shields his eyes from the sun. "I know you mean well and you’re only interested in my life but—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling! Did I overstep the mark?” she asks, blushing, and yes, she really bloody did, but Harry gets to the point, just to be able to breathe for a second. For all their sakes.

“No,” Harry grins, or lies, rather, “it’s just, um... You see that guy over there? In the blue shirt?” He points unmistakably to Louis. Carol’s eyes fall to him curiously. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Carol gasps, and Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. Gemma and Jamie both do it for him, topping up their drinks. Bless them for staying with Harry and interjecting whenever they could.

“Yeah, you see, it didn’t end too well,” he grimaces, “and I’d just really appreciate it if we didn’t talk about the subject of my dating escapades, you know? I’d rather keep it off-limits, if it’s all the same to you.”

Harry feigns glumness, a sad tilt of his mouth coming on that his aunt eats up instantly. “Oh, darling. Of course! Oh, you shouldn’t have let me rattle on if I upset you?” She clasps his hand and gives a squeeze, looking so rueful that now Harry feels overwhelming guilt for lying to her. “I’ll let the others know on the quiet, shall I?”

“Please, if you could. Thanks, Auntie Carol.” And with that, he hugs her tightly, much to his aunt’s delight.

There we go.

The grapevine is about to grow.

(And Harry’s never saying that out loud.) (Louis would crush him via verbal abuse.)

Speaking of.

Harry lets his gaze wander back to Louis, who has finally decided to meet his eyes. Harry swallows hard, ignoring the swoop of butterflies as they make eye-contact and wipes the remnants of sweat from his forehead, before getting out his phone and arming himself with some very inquisitive text messages.

_Whatever you’ve been talking about, it sure as hell better not have involved me, Louis!!!_

Just as he’s about to press send, Gemma clears her throat.

Harry looks up, a tad startled.

“So,” Gemma says, quirking an eyebrow, "are  _you_ going to tell me why you guys broke up or do I have to wheedle it out of you another way? Say... by asking Louis? Hmm?”

**

After a longer than necessary catch-up with Anne (whom Louis could quite happily spend the duration of his time here talking to—she’s just delightful, so warm and welcoming) and decidedly not making eye-contact with Harry, Louis purposely catches Harry’s eyes from across the vast, impeccably kept lawn; bordered by pretty gardens, blossoming flowerbeds and soft beige pebbles.

Harry, who’s kitted out in fitted cream trousers and a flimsy pale pink button down, looking far too attractive than should be legal.

Harry, who is situated directly opposite Louis from a table a few down from the one Louis’ sat at, tense as fuck as he watches Louis conversing with Anne and her lovely, chatty friends, in fact—whom all seem to be sufficiently charmed by Louis’ dry wit and humour and his ludicrously exaggerated stories that he’s collected whilst having been thrown into the fast-paced, superficial (but drastically less glamorous) midst of the fashion industry.

And he’s having way too much fun, because ever since Anne pulled him over to her table with no room for a polite refusal, Harry’s eyes have been watching them obsessively like a hawk, as he’s knocked back one too many gin and tonics by the looks of things from where Louis’ sitting, appearing highly-strung and sweating like crazy in these sweltering temperatures.

He’s tried to look like he isn’t watching them of course, engaging in friendly chat with his cousins and relatives and apparently not in any danger of being quizzed too thoroughly yet (which is where Louis will come in, depending on how far gossip has spread in the last couple of hours), judging by Harry’s mostly relaxed, wide smiles.

Though Harry passed their table about forty minutes ago, his hairline slick with sweat and his short fringe curling at the ends, pacing back and forth a bit, pretending as though he was merely collecting more drinks for his table. He shot Louis a warning look, well, more of a glare, really, and Louis couldn’t resist taking no notice, instead shooting an impish smirk his way at the last moment, relishing in getting under Harry’s (very restless) skin.

But it’s not like Louis planned on speaking to Anne at all, for obvious reasons, and Harry certainly wasn’t planning on this happening; he probably thought Louis would be far away, seated at the other end of the lawn where all their old friends from uni are perched with their cold beers and sunglasses and hoping Louis would completely ignore Harry’s existence.

But saying no to Anne is impossible, and besides, Louis is genuinely having a pleasant time, sitting with a bunch of charming middle-aged women, who are hanging off Louis’ every word, seemingly very interested in Louis’ work and stories. (And miraculously, he’s even done a good job of avoiding the subject of Harry too closely.)

Harry doesn’t know that, though, and therefore looks to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. (Louis only sniggered a couple of times.)

But then Anne asks Louis something he definitely wasn’t prepared for, Harry’s gaze burning the side of his face. Louis starts to overzealously down his gin.

Anne takes a swig of her white wine, eyes momentarily flicking to the side, presumably to glance at Harry's whereabouts. She then settles her kind eyes back on Louis as she tucks a stray hair of her otherwise immaculate brown hair, held up with an assortment of flower-shaped hairclips behind her ear.

“Tell me to mind my own business, Louis, but, uh... you and Harry,” she begins innocently, tone unsure.

Louis' heartbeat instantly speeds up. Oh god. He keeps on gulping. (Come on, alcohol. Do your damn job.)

She looks very eager to know, whatever it is playing on her mind, though. And something tells him she's asked Harry about this subject on more than one occasion. (God only knows how that went down, seeing as Harry almost has a stroke whenever they’ve hinted at their past closeness.)

"Was there ever anything there? You know, romantically?" Her pitch climbs higher as she reaches the end of the dreaded sentence, a soft but nervous smile on her lips.

Louis almost splutters his drink across the table, unable to stop his eyes from glancing over at Harry, who immediately knows something’s up, already halfway out of his chair, eyes wide and yes, on the verge of a stroke.

He’s so weird about this lying thing with his mum that now it's rubbed off on Louis. Jesus.

“Uh,” Louis laughs nervously, at a loss of how to swerve the question. “Oh, you know, uh. Well. Harry’s always been popular with everyone, hasn't he? Proper charmer, your boy.” He grips his glass tighter through a gritted smile.

Anne’s brows furrow slightly. “Does that mean—”

“It really doesn’t mean anything, Anne,” Louis politely replies, just wanting to steer the topic away from Harry, since he didn’t ask what exactly Harry wanted to tell his mum about them. He’d rather Harry took care of this bit himself than have another row. "Honestly, honestly," he starts to chuckle awkwardly, and fast. He sounds insane. He reaches for another glass of... something.

“It’s just,” Anne continues, hesitant, seeming confused, “you were always so close? Well, from what Harry used to tell me, at least, and then all of a sudden, the topic of the two of you was completely out of bounds. Harry got rather upset about it, if I’m honest.” Her face is apprehensive, wary as though she knows she probably shouldn’t have brought this up. She glances over at Harry again for another brief moment and her gaze slides back to Louis.

Who’s currently sweating more than he thought possible. Holy shit. He needs to change his shirt. “Oh, really?” Louis replies casually, knowing his voice sounds like he's swallowed a frog. “Um... I’m not sure that’s really the—”

Anne must see something in Louis’ face that makes her think twice about what she's asking, because her tentative smile instantly falls. “Oh, just ignore me,” she says, patting Louis’ forearm apologetically. “Please forget I asked anything, Louis. I’m so sorry. I’m being a right nosy so-and-so—”

“Mum?” Harry’s now standing behind Anne’s chair, trying to appear nonchalant but Louis can see he’s agitated. One look at Louis and Harry’s back to scowling.

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Anne greets with a sunny grin, a slight hint of guilt around her red painted lips.

“Uh, Auntie Carol wants you to show her the pictures you took in Nice?”

“Oh, right. I better grab my camera from Gemma, then.” Anne turns back to Louis. “It was so lovely talking to you, Louis. Come find me over the next few days as well, will you? Don’t be a stranger,” she smiles, warm and familiar, squeezing Louis’ arm as she gets up.

“You can count on that, Anne. It’s been a pleasure talking to you, too,” he grins back.

And then he’s left with Harry standing over him, who appears very displeased.

“What the hell’s been going on over here?” he whisper-demands as soon as Anne’s out of earshot.

"A good couple of hours of pleasant chat and wonderful company and these  _gorgeous_  chocolate croissants," Louis exaggerates on a moan, sucking on his fingers and gasping dramatically with a mirth-laced smirk. Harry’s face is extremely irate, as well as very hot and bothered. (In more ways than one, Louis’ willing to wager.)

"What do you think?"

"You," Harry says, mouth tilted grumpily, "are getting too bloody pally over here with my mother. You’re not supposed to be swapping life stories with her, Louis,” he hisses quietly, now aware of more of his relatives sitting at the table. “You’re meant to be my ex, remember? My mum isn't supposed to like you.”

“Why not, exactly?” Louis protests. “Not ever?”

“For god’s sake, Louis.” Harry wipes at his sweaty forehead, running his fingers through his short strands.

Louis wants to push it further. He just can’t help himself. Harry’s seconds away from collapsing. “Oh, calm down, love," he insists breezily, waving him off. "We didn’t talk about you, okay? We talked about me, actually. Your mum only mentioned you for the first time just now. So, we’re safe.” He cocks his head. “Kind of." He calmly takes a sip of his gin, pretending he didn’t almost freeze and fall right out of his chair at the mere mention of Harry by his mother.

“Yeah, for now.” Harry crosses his arms, still too close to Louis' chair, giving him a strong whiff of his tropical aftershave. (Louis' mouth absolutely does not water.)

“I’ll try and steer clear of her, then. Though, I warn you, it may be difficult. That woman loves me,” he smirks.

Harry exhales exasperatedly. “Nothing’s changed there,” he says under his breath.

Louis flicks his gaze back up. “What’s that meant to mean?”

Harry’s eyes flash with slight trepidation, then dart away. “It means you need to keep your distance, alright? Look, Gemma and another cousin of mine, Jamie, if you remember him from uni, know that you're my 'ex' now. Think he’s already talking about us at the table over there with another of my cousins, Hayley.”

"Bloody hell, how many of you are there? You’ve got cousins coming out of your ears."

"A lot. And they're all incessant gossips," Harry sighs, pointing with his eyes. Louis follows his eyeline.

It does indeed look like they’re now the hot topic of the party already. Jamie is murmuring something to Hayley who seems to be enthralled, now looking over at himself and Harry, a poorly veiled look of gleeful interest on her face.

"Yeah, so. If it's a slow news days, my family will most probably all have heard about us by the end of brunch."

“Right, then. Your love life can probably be ticked off the question list, yeah? Mission accomplished, right?"

Louis’ feeling really quite giddy at the moment. Maybe he downed one too many drinks a bit too quickly. Ah well. All the more help to get him through this ridiculous situation.

Harry quiets, just looking at Louis for a moment, contemplative, maybe even a tad softly?

There’s a wobble in Louis' belly. Or perhaps it's only the bubbles.

"Harry?" Louis prompts, biting back another smirk.

“Well...um. Not quite. Was asked about my job by my granddad as soon as I got here,” Harry says, seeming tired already, his cheeks pinkening a bit. “Had to make something up about being between articles for a paper.”

“Oh, don’t worry; a few more drinks in by dinner and no one will care about your career prospects, Harry. They’ll be too busy preoccupied with whispering about you and me, won’t they?” Louis says perkily, winking at him as he softly pats Harry’s tummy. “Our hot, volatile, passionate love affair,” he teases breathily, enunciating the words for only Harry to hear.

Harry's brows furrow, eyes very nearly incredulous. 

Louis loves winding him up. He’s missed it. But before he can dwell on that, Harry’s eyes are zeroing in on the point of contact, where Louis' palm is still against the solidness of Harry's stomach over his threadbare shirt. He feels Harry's body tense. “Yeah. Because we’re so interesting, aren't we?” he mumbles, moving backwards.

Louis instantly wishes he’d kept his hands to himself. “Okay. Well. As much fun as it is being on the receiving end of one of your pouty moods”—Harry lets out an indignant squeak, an apology then flashing in his green eyes—“I’m off to spread more of my alluring cheer elsewhere.” He looks at him pointedly. “Where it’s _wanted_.”

He’s about to walk over to Matty and the guys when he feels Harry’s hand grip firmly around Louis’ wrist, tugging him to him slightly, the action thankfully obscured from view by their lower bodies, which are basically pressed flush to each other. Louis lets a soft breath escape. “Just make sure you keep looking at me, alright?” Harry murmurs lowly against his ear, Louis’ body traitorously going pliant in his space.

And then Harry’s hastily walking away, shoulders stiff, positively  _glaring_ at Louis as he goes.

Christ.

Louis blinks, scoffing out a short laugh, unsure if that was partly for show to make it clear to everyone (who’s doing a poor job pretending they aren’t watching) that they’re on bad terms or what.

Is that what he’s supposed to think? Are they acting right now? Who knows.

Either way, Louis feels highly unsettled, undoing another button on his shirt as he strides over to the guys, extremely hot under the collar. (And now uncomfortably tight in his trouser shorts.)

“Oh, fuck. Thanks a lot, Styles,” he mutters under his breath, as he awkwardly attempts to discreetly adjust himself in his pants.

**

Once everyone disperses to their rooms, or around the grounds playing golf (or back to the bar), Harry races to his own room in the hotel, catching sight of his mum about to make her way over, an apologetic smile on her face.

Harry knows what’s coming next, so he gets away sharpish, practically sprinting up the stairs and collapsing onto the bouncy double bed with a long-suffering slump, sinking into the gloriously soft mattress, and releases a drawn-out sigh, flinging his arm over his eyes.

Though having a quick sleep is probably out of the question. He’s sticky and irritable, the air con doesn’t seem to be working, and he’s annoyingly unable to stop thinking about one certain man named Louis Tomlinson.

He can just get under his skin like no one else; always has done; with the slightest thing, the simplest words, the barest touch.

It’s infuriating.

Louis’ got people falling in love with him left, right and centre and it’s only the first day. He glances at his phone. It’s just gone three. So, that leaves another few hours before they sit down for dinner downstairs at around seven.

Which is going to be a cracker, for sure; what with his mum desperate to grill him about Louis now that they’re suddenly bezzie mates.

He’s about to try and take a much-needed nap anyway, when there’s a knock at the door—one that’s achingly familiar.

He knows who it is before he’s even opened the door.

“And you’re here because?” Harry says, without much heat to his voice because all right, he might be a teeny bit pleased that Louis noticed his absence.

He eyes Louis closely, noticing he looks a bit sunburnt and tired, and reprimanding himself for being so caught up on every minor detail about him. So what if Louis needs a nap, too? It’s none of Harry’s business. (Even if he’d drop everything to let Louis sleep beside him, just to listen to his fucking breathing like the moronic loser he’s currently being.)

_He’s taken, you idiot. He's not yours._

(Amongst other reasons.) (What exactly are those again?) (Louis' curvy legs are very distracting.)

“I’m bored,” Louis informs him, leaning casually against the door frame, yawning. It’s  _not_ cute. Not even a little bit. Not even when he daintily puts his small hand over his mouth to cover up his yawn. (Which is also reminiscent of a furry baby animal's, he can't help but note.)

“How does that have anything to do with me?”

“Can I come in? You can entertain me, if you’d like.”

Louis winks, pushing himself off the door frame and sauntering inside like he owns the place, ducking his head underneath Harry’s arm to get past Harry’s lacklustre attempts at keeping him out. In more ways than one.

(Pfft. That’s useless, apparently.) (He’s doesn’t even want him to go anyway.) (Sad.)

Harry watches Louis jump onto his bed without ceremony and spread out, kicking off his brogues and rubbing his bare feet smoothly together atop the silk sheets.

“Yeah, make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Harry says dryly, closing the door. “This isn’t weird, or awkward, or invasive at all.”

“Oh, don’t get all standoffish again because you’re embarrassed you tried to kiss me.”

“What?” Harry shrieks, incredulous. Falsely incredulous, because Harry knows what he means, obviously. Oh, shit. He hoped he wouldn’t bring it up. He’d hoped Louis had forgotten. No such luck. “When did I try to kiss you?” he denies.

Louis smirks at him, tilting his head to the side. “In the cab. Last Friday. You  _know_ what I mean,” he grins.

“I don’t,” Harry retorts, folding his arms petulantly.

“You thought I was leaning in when I was just opening the door for you,” Louis says, surprisingly composed.

“Why would you open the door for me? I was right next to the door. I’m quite capable of opening my own doors, Louis!”

“Are you?” Louis quirks an eyebrow.

Are they still talking about doors?

“Stop trying to confuse me.”

“I’m not.”

And then Louis bursts into booming hysterical laughter.

Harry frowns, cheeks burning. “I was tipsy,” he says lamely. “I didn’t know  _what_ was happening. It was dark, okay?”

That only makes him laugh harder. “Sure.  _That_ was it.”

Harry’s head snaps up and suddenly he’s more angry than humiliated. “Excuse me?”

Louis’ laughing ceases abruptly where he’s leaning on his forearm. He sits upright.

“Do you think I’d really just kiss you again after everything?” 

“Jesus, Harry. I wasn’t saying—”

“What _were_  you saying?”

“I didn’t mean—” Louis begins quietly, cheeks reddening, sheepish now. His posture is stiff on the bed, encircling his ankles with his hands before crossing his legs. “I was only teasing.”

“Yeah, well—don’t." Harry instantly regrets his grouchy behaviour. God, he’s just so moody, so easily upset when Louis is involved. He’s being a huge, touchy brat right now and he knows it. They both know it. Harry wishes Louis would just shout back at him. Because he was right. He needs a kick up the backside. Maybe grow up a bit. But Louis is just taking it.

It’s weird and nothing like it used to be between them, and Harry doesn’t like it, the feeling sitting heavily in his gut. 

"I'm sorry." Suddenly Harry feels choked up. "God, I'm sorry. I don't want to start another row. Fuck. Just ignore me."

He sniffs a bit too loudly.

Louis flicks his eyes to him. They're so open; they break his heart a bit.

“Bit congested. It’s all the gin,” Harry explains needlessly.

Louis just eyes him warily and Harry frowns hard at the bed sheet, the other man mindlessly running his hands over the silky material, quiet.

“Well,” Louis mutters after a minute, “this took a turn.” He rolls his eyes, hugging his bare knees.

Harry’s gaze softens.

Louis meets his eyes briefly, then lowers his own. “Are we ever going to be friends again?” he asks tentatively, a hint of acceptance in his voice as though he’s already reconciled to the possibility that they won’t ever be close again.

Harry watches Louis closely, trying to figure this older Louis out. He’s basically the same, albeit sporting a lot more scruff on his cheeks than he used to have; a bit leaner in the face. He’s clearly been working out too, arms toned and defined.

But all in all, he’s still the same Louis (w ~~ho broke his heart)~~.

 _His_ Louis.

And most importantly, he sounds and seems genuine, moving to rest his back against the headboard and fiddling incessantly with the buttons on his shirt, like he used to do whenever he was nervous or unsure. Harry’s lips quirk. The idea that Louis cares about Harry’s response to his question treacherously makes Harry soften further.

He gingerly moves nearer to the bed and perches himself on the edge, body faced away from Louis’ curious stare, skin pickling under it with the need to just touch and—

“I never meant to hurt you, Harry." Louis' tone is so earnest and Harry can't stop looking at him. "That’s not what I was doing that night. I—I didn’t know how to tell you that I was leaving and that night was... It shook me, I guess? It was a surprise and I just... well, it—”

"Louis." Harry looks away and sits in silence for a few moments, folding his arms. “I don’t want to talk about this. Not yet,” he amends. He meets Louis' gaze again, who’s already looking at him with attentive eyes, practically penetrating the heavy, thick wall barricading Harry’s thoughts.

Harry represses a shiver, resisting the urge to just...  _touch_. He’s not used to Louis' body parts being restricted. They’d touch all the time, almost needing to, like it was second nature to them; a tender brush, a playful shove, a squeeze of comfort.

Louis' got a bit of grass in his hair and Harry would pick it out, but... yeah.

“Okay,” Louis nods, breaking their stare. “Well, when you want to hear what I have to say—”

“I’ll ask.” Harry smiles. Louis’ eyes flash with something that Harry can’t quite place. It gnaws at him a moment when Louis exhales, shifting down the bed until his head hits the pillow. Harry doesn’t stop himself from watching him.

"Okay, then."

There's quiet for a few seconds. Louis stares down his own body, wiggling his toes. Harry's gaze follows the movement.

“You’re a rubbish host. I want my money back,” Louis says with his eyes closed.

"What money?" Harry snorts. “And you’re the one intruding my hotel room, thank you. I was going to take a nap. You have your own room, you know?”

“Oh? Well," Louis suddenly has an impish look in his eyes, limbs looser, "we could take a nap together?” he lilts cheekily, poking Harry’s thigh with his foot and moving forwards to roll over onto his belly, his feet in the air, swaying them from side to side. “Share body heat?” he suggests, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously and then grinning, the crinkles by his eyes prominent and very nearly doing Harry in.

Harry stares at him, half-frowning and half-reluctantly endeared. “What are you doing?” he squints, words slow and wary.

Louis dramatically turns over onto his back with a heavy sigh, playfully blinking up at him, groaning.

Harry narrows his eyes further. “Louis.”

What is he trying to do here? Flirt with Harry until he gives in? To give into what, exactly? Not that Harry would be so against the idea of... you know, if he was completely smashed and lost all of his inhibitions and bitterness and...  _Shit._  

Louis has someone, doesn’t he? Isn’t that what he said? Fuck. Harry forget Louis has a boyfriend. Again. Damn it. But. Louis seems to have forgotten he has one, too. Or doesn’t care, at any rate. Weird. Maybe they’re having problems? Maybe—

Shush, Harry.

Louis  _was_  having a right good time earlier flirting with all the groomsmen, that’s for sure. And they were basking in his attention and if Harry flared up with slight... possessiveness for the other man, well. He needs to get a fucking grip, is what he needs to do.

Harry’s face transforms into a deep frown. Mostly aimed at himself and his inability to just chill the hell out and get over this already.

“It’s fucking thirty-five degrees,” he shoots back. “Why would we need to be sharing body heat? In fact, why would we need to be sharing anything, eh?”

Louis exhales obnoxiously. “God! Why are you so uptight?” he whines, rolling back over, flattening out and stretching out his shirt limbs. Harry’s eyes linger on the soft, tanned band of skin above his waist. "You never used to be. You used to be fun. I don't think you're actually Harry." He stills, then, "You’re an imposter!" He flings an arm into the air, somehow smacking himself in the process. "Ow."

Harry doesn’t realise he’s smiling until Louis starts to chuckle, his own smile so dazzling and wonderful, it's close to causing Harry’s breath to hitch. "I can be fun," he grins.

Louis makes a ridiculous face, a stupid noise to match.

“Are you day-drunk, or something?” Harry asks, amused as Louis buries his face in the pillow. “How much have you had? Your cheeks are flushed.”

“What’s your point?” Louis’ hand snaps up, face etched in a glare. Then it’s gone. Silly man. “It’s hot,” he whines again, louder this time, slumping in a heap, curled up on the bed.

Yeah. Definitely drunk.

“You’re properly tipsy.” Harry stares at him a moment, Louis staying still. “Aren’t you.” He gives Louis’ leg a whack with his knee, a begrudging smile tugging the corners of his lips, softening greatly because Louis’ foot is brushing against Harry’s thigh. "You've been trying to hide it but I know you are. I can tell."

Harry gingerly rests his wrist atop Louis’ bare ankle, the touch sending his nerves flailing, butterflies stirring vigorously inside his tummy.

He exhales quietly, and then Louis’ wriggling around again. He’s honestly like a toddler sometimes. He’s in his late-twenties now for goodness sake. And Harry’s smiling again. Properly. Wide and genuine.

But before he gets an earful from this intoxicated, restless boy writhing on his bed, another sudden knock at the door makes them both jump, their gazes whipping towards it.

“Harry? Will you let me in, please?”

“Who’s that?” Louis asks, head floppy like a rag-doll. He leans onto Harry’s back for support and Harry almost flinches up in shock at the contact.

“Shit.” Harry scrambles to Louis and grabs his arm, leading him to the on-suite by the hand. It’s a little sweaty he notes, but the shape is painfully familiar.  _Stop fucking doing that,_  he tells himself sternly. “You have to hide.”

“Why?” Louis says, face adorably confused. He look like he’s about to fall asleep. He’s also still holding onto Harry’s hand.

Harry’s heart definitely does not skip. “It’s my sister.”

“Oh! But I like Gemma,” he pouts.

“Yeah, well. She might not be your biggest fan these days.”

“Why?” Louis demands, very disgruntled and small. Harry swallows hard.

“Because I may have made you sound like a prize prick when she asked why we broke up?”

“Harry,” he says, miffed. He’d probably be a lot more bothered if he was fully alert for this conversation.

“Well I had to tell her something! You’re supposed to be my ex, aren’t you? She asked what the story was... I told her.” Harry shrugs.

“Told her what?” Louis asks, hands on his hips.

Harry shrugs. “Enough to start gossip. Gemma means well, but she’s definitely letting this slip to at least another two of my cousins.”

“You’re telling me exactly what you did tell her later.” Louis’ face is firm. Harry can’t help but snigger. Louis jabs at his chest when the knocking resumes.

“Harry? What are you doing in there?” Gemma asks warily. “Do I need to come back when you’re decent?” she groans.

“Louis," he hisses. "Hide.”

“Don’t push me!”

Harry glares.

“Alright, keep your hair on.” Louis releases himself from Harry’s grip. "What's left of it," he mutters, eyes rolling. Harry isn't even bothered, only instantly misses the sweaty warmth of Louis’ small hand in his.

Oh, god. This can’t be good. Not good at all.

Harry scowls as Louis closes the bathroom door a little too loudly. Little shit.

“Hi, Gem. What’s up, sister?” Harry stupidly answers the door with, a bit breathless, greeted with Gemma’s scrutinising gaze, her arms folded and leaning against the door frame.

“Who were you talking to?” she asks slowly.

“Hmm? Oh! Niall. On the phone.” Harry smiles, probably too enthusiastically, but Gemma doesn’t seem to read much into it.

He lets her pass as she traipses in, her sandals sticking to the soles of her feet as she goes, her eyes scanning around the room.

She pauses at the on-suite door and turns to face Harry.

“What’s up?” Harry asks.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Gemma gives him disbelieving look.

“Because of Louis?” Harry laughs.

Gemma nods.

“Honestly, I just need to sleep off the general shock of seeing him here and I’ll be okay, Gem. I promise. I can handle this.”

She hums thoughtfully. “So I’ve been asking around the guys. Being nosy, you could say, but I found out Louis' doing well in London with his fashion stuff. I couldn’t work out if he’s with anyone though. Didn't hear anything.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. Obviously Louis hasn't talked about Liam, then. Interesting. Maybe. "Okay. Why are you telling me this?”

“I thought you might want to know.” Gemma raises an eyebrow. A mischievous eyebrow.

“Because it would make it easier to know he’s moved on, or...?” Harry’s confused as to where she’s going with this.

“No. I was checking he wasn’t attached.”

“Why?” Harry says, defensive.

“Because it sounds like he's unattached. Fair game. You know, if you wanted to... sort things out. Now’s your chance.”

Harry stares at her for a beat, acutely aware Louis could be listening against the bathroom door right now, if he’s not passed out on the floor. Knowing Louis. he's got his ear pressed right up against it and is straining to hear every word.

“I don’t get it. You were livid when I told you Louis left without saying anything, that he never got back in contact and now, what? You’re trying to set us back up again? We slept together once. Twice." He shakes his eyes, scrunching his eyes shut. "Kind of. Why are you pushing this?"

Gemma watches him with sympathetic eyes. Harry almost wants to snap at her to mind her own business. He can feel his face heating up under her knowing stare. He wishes she’d stop doing that. Reading him like a book.

“Are you honestly going to tell me you’re not still hung up on him, H?” she says softly.

Harry slumps down onto the bed. "Gemma. Don't."

She joins him after a beat and gives his leg a tap, curling up on the other side. “I see the way you look at him. Everyone watches you two, you know. You're like magnets.”

“How cliché of you,” he mutters, unimpressed. “Is this the part where you tell me that I still l—” He stops himself from saying it at the last second, heart hammering inside his chest at the close call. Louis is right next to them, behind that door. “It’s over. Okay? It didn’t work out.”

“Harry, why are you pretending to me?”

“What?” Harry snaps his eyes to her, panicked.

Shit? How can she know? 

“You slipped up.” Gemma smiles, amused.

“Huh?” he says dumbly.

“You just told me you only slept together. You know, like way back when you told me it happened the first time. Graduation night. After months of pining and snotty tears dampening my jumpers and late night phone calls of you freaking out whenever you saw him."

“Shit."

“Why did you lie and tell me you and Louis were together, you knob?” she laughs. "I knew it sounded strange. You never would have hid this if it were real. You'd be screaming in people's faces that Louis was your boyfriend if he was."

"Shut up," Harry huffs, but he smiles, small. “I don’t even know myself,” he admits, cheeks aflame. “I guess I just wanted everyone off my back for a bit. I’m sick of everyone asking me about my life, about stuff that isn’t their business,” he says mildly, a small smile stretching his lips. “Everyone’s coupled up and sorted here.” Gemma rolls her eyes, and Harry smiles wider. “Look at me. I’m a currently unemployed, pathetic mess!” he chuckles. “So I made up a story. I just wanted, like, a break. Just for a few days. I dunno. I’m dumb. I’m so dumb.”

He sighs, falling backwards.

“Why don’t you just tell people you don’t want to talk about certain subjects if you're that bothered?”

“Because they’d listen?” Harry looks at her dubiously. Gemma makes a face like he has a point. “I had to make up something. They’re relentless with their interrogating and their jokes...”

“Oh, and this was the next best way to stop them? By pretending Louis was your boyfriend?” Gemma raises an eyebrow and falls back down next to him, their legs bent over the end of the bed still as they lie here. They used to do this when they were little. Fall asleep side by side. A blanket thrown over them. Harry a chubby toddler and Gemma curling her short arms around his middle. “You’re a right silly one, aren’t you?” she says, smiling fondly, her hands folded over her stomach. “And you’re not dumb. This though, this you and Louis thing... now that is dumb.”

Harry turns to her. “Yeah. This is the kind of brother you have. A bratty, whiny baby brother. Always feeling sorry for himself.” He smirks, starting to laugh when Gemma does. It falls into cackles, hysteria creeping into Harry’s bloodstream.

“Oh, my god. I need to get a life.” Harry smushes his face to the side, smiling softly.

“You’re just going through a bad patch, Harry. It's perfectly normal, okay? Your twenties are hard."

Harry rolls his eyes. 

"They are! It’s difficult to accept that you don’t have to have everything sorted yet when everyone's drumming it into you that you're an adult. And you are, but really, you're kind of stuck at the halfway point. Not a teenager, nor really a proper adult, you know? Not when you can't afford basic things needed to be an independent adult. So it takes us a bit longer, I reckon. To actually feel older." Gemma gives him a discerning smile. "And anyway, it’s the time for discovering who you are and making mistakes and learning about life and all that hippie bullshit,” Gemma grins, ruffling his hair. "Ew. That's a bit sweat-drenched. Take a shower, H."

Harry huffs out a laugh. “You’re alright, though,” he points out gently.

Gemma levels him with a mild look of skepticism. “Oh, trust me. I wasn’t always. My early twenties were hell. I was an anxious wreck most of the time."

"You seemed okay to me?" Harry frowns, wondering with a start if he didn't pay enough attention to his sister's well being while he lived with her. "Were you that bad?" he says, guilt knotting his stomach.

"Yeah," she shrugs, "but I'm a master at pretending I'm fine. It’s only now I’m getting a bit better, even after meeting Sam. We may be happily married now but I wasn’t always as sure about myself. Believe or not, I’m still not completely comfortable in my own skin and I'm twenty-eight."

Harry quiets, taking in her words. “Well,  _you’ve no_  reason not to be. You’re the coolest sister in existence, alright? I’m so lucky to have such a wise older sibling.” He nudges her leg with his foot, snuggling closer. “I definitely need being told to pack in my ridiculousness, sometimes. Most of the time," he admits with a grin. "Love you.”

“Please. This is far too soppy for daylight, H,” she smiles warmly, getting up and pushing his face away. “Don't mind if I use your toilet, do you?”

“Oh, um,” Harry starts, eyes widening, sitting upright.

Gemma smirks wickedly. “Louis! I need a wee. Vacate, would you?” 

Harry exhales, falling back down again. “How do you always know?” he pouts.

“Habit, mate. Where there’s a Harry, there is always a Louis,” she shrugs easily. "Textbook."

“Oh,” Harry breathes. The fact that Gemma still associates them as a pair, even now, briefly stirs something both warm and painful in Harry’s chest. There’s a few seconds of no movement and then a click, Louis peering his head around from the door, his hair mussed. “Hi, Gemma,” he greets, far too perkily. Harry thinks he’s started to sober up a tad, a wild of look of panic in his blue eyes.

“Louis Tomlinson,” she smirks. She gets up and passes him with a playful shove to the shoulder. “You’re still humouring all his nonsense, then. Unsurprising,” she quips, closing the bathroom door.

Louis exchanges a look with Harry. “So. She knows then.”

“Yep,” Harry says simply. “Mum still can’t though. I need everyone else to still believe—”

“Done and done,” Louis waves him away, crawling into the bed and settling down, closing his eyes. “Wake me up when it’s time for dinner, yeah?”

“Okay,” Harry murmurs, ignoring Gemma’s smug face when she comes out of the bathroom.

**

It’s almost six, and Harry is sitting here in his hotel room watching Louis like a first-class creep.

With a mug of black coffee nestled between his hands and stripped off into a pair of swim shorts and the air con now working, Harry is curled up against the left side of the headboard, staring at the way Louis’ shiny eyelids are twitching. Harry finds himself stupidly wondering what he’s dreaming about, since he’s clearly in a deep sleep.

And snoring.

They’re soft snores, but snores nonetheless. And Harry’s weirdly entranced by them. (Just another thing to add to the list of bizarre things Harry’s into.)

Louis' hair is another thing Harry’s always been into.

That’s soft as well. Like right now. It’s soft and messy and the product in it has basically all been rubbed out from Louis’ hands raking through it, as well as the sweat diluting it, probably. It’s sticking up every way possible, wildly ruffled from shifting around during his nap. He kind of looks like a hedgehog.

A very cute one.

Harry grimaces at himself, silently whimpering as he continues to watch Louis’ peacefully sleeping form, trying desperately to stamp out the urge to slide his fingertips through Louis’ hair. Wants so much to lie down next to him and hook his chin over Louis’ shoulder, just cuddle into his familiar warmth, his almost flowery smell. He hasn’t had the pleasure of that pastime in years.

Not since—

Harry hastily shakes  _that_  memory away, cross with himself for letting it slither back into his thoughts so frequently since Louis’ been back in his life. Harry's aware he's not being the most accommodating or the easiest to get along with right now. And it's because these feelings for Louis are weighing heavily, miserably on his heart, making his brain turn to mush, making him act like a dick because he just misses Louis so much.

(Harry likes to torture himself over this point, clearly.)

Instead, he embarrassingly refocuses his attention on the sleep creases by Louis’ mouth and his rosy cheek, the blush hypnotic to Harry’s Louis senses, getting them tingling.

God, he’s so...

But Harry doesn’t want to risk even disturbing one strand of hair on his head because Louis would surely wake and smack him in the face if he realised. So he’ll focus on his self-control for this one.

It’s now that Louis shifts slightly on his belly, as though the little shit can hear Harry’s thoughts, (which is a terrifying thought in itself) wriggling and writhing on top of the duvet, legs spread out and his arms above his head.

He looks like a mess and Harry is besotted.

Still.

So. Yeah. Harry’s got to the acceptance stage, it seems.

Harry still has a clusterfuck of ardent, all-consuming, desire-ridden feelings for Louis.

God. Shit.

He has them even with dry drool on Louis' chin, and with his clothes all sweaty at his pits and rumpled in a muddle. Even with his mouth open and snoring, and even with his bare feet out and giving off a whiff of something quite unpleasant.

Even with those things, he’s still got overwhelming affection for this man lying in a heap beside him. Because of those things.

And god, Harry's  _missed_ him.

“Shit, fuck,” he breathes up at the ceiling, irritably rubbing at his eye socket because his eyes are starting to sting with tears. “I don’t want these.”

Because not only does he know Louis doesn’t feel the same as Harry, Louis isn’t available to him. Even if he wanted him.

Maybe. He’s not about to believe Gemma’s likely wrong information about Louis’ relationship status.

It’s not worth the risk to suddenly lunge at Louis with his mouth.

And would just be both too desperate and mortifying.

But he really would like to at least try to become Louis' friend again. More than.

Harry gives Louis a childish shove.

No movement.

He does it again.

Nope. It’s like trying to wake the dead. He always was a heavy sleeper.

“Louis,” Harry murmurs. “We better get dressed for dinner now.” He trails a finger down Louis’ forearm, poking lightly at his hot, damp cheek, heart swelling with affection. 

**

“Hmph.”

Louis opens one eye, jolting awake when he’s met with Harry’s agonisingly attractive face looming over him. “Oh, my god,” he blurts out, taking in Harry’s almost dreamy gaze and half-dressed state; his shirt completely undone and his shorts... really fucking short, bulging at his thighs and—

“We didn’t—we haven’t—did we—” he stammers out, cheeks flaming and heart rate sky-rocketing through the goddamn ceiling.

“No sex was involved in any shape or form. So don’t have a heart attack,” Harry deadpans. There’s a hint of a fond smile on his chapped lips though.

Louis rubs at his face as he sits up, disorientated and his head feeling as heavy as a brick, throat dry as a desert. “Oh, thank god for that,” he exhales, probably too relieved by the look on Harry’s face, his smile dwindling until it’s clean off. “Christ.”

“Yeah, so don’t worry, you're not a cheat."

Harry's expression is hard.

Louis furrows his brows, perplexed. Cheat? Who's cheating? What is he on about? Louis is so confused.

"We haven’t made this even more of a shambles than it already is.”

Louis meets Harry’s eyes. Harry stares impassively for another beat and then starts to move.

“Um. How long did I sleep for?”

“A couple of hours or more.”

“I feel like shit,” Louis bemoans, tutting his tongue because it tastes awful. The sun’s filtering in through the window and he’s squinting, wondering what the hell he’s doing in Harry’s room.

Harry gets off the bed with his mug and leaves it on the bedside table. “Dinner’s at seven, or around then, at least. I’m taking a shower.”

“Right,” Louis nods, dazed.

“You should too,” Harry informs him curtly as he walks to the en-suite.

Louis blinks as Harry shuts the bathroom door. “Oh, god,” he whimpers, falling back down onto the bed for a moment, realising this isn’t his room again and groaning.

He crawls off the bed and checks his pocket for his room key, stalking out of Harry’s to find his own, a horrible knot in his stomach that him and Harry have taken another step back.

No, that’s it. Louis is ambushing Harry after dinner and he is going to tell Louis exactly what's going on in that complicated head of his.

"Fucking fabulous for day one, Louis, anyway."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... the Styles' may not like starting rows, but they sure are nosy.
> 
> I write too much... I hope it was decent, but I'm sure the dinner will be eventful ;) xx


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a bit of a block lately but hopefully this is okay :) xx

 

After a much longer than necessary, embarrassingly inept march to find his own hotel room (that he found was just a few rooms down from Harry’s after traipsing in and out of the lifts half a dozen times), Louis is just about capable of thinking more clearly—due to downing about a gallon of water, and needing to wee every five minutes because of it.

Now he's staring intently down at the outfit he’s laid out on the bed with hard furrowed brows, chewing loudly and obsessively thinking about Harry’s sudden curt manner when Louis’ first assumption to finding Harry sitting in bed beside him was that they’d slept together.

Okay, Louis can see why that might have rubbed Harry the wrong way, and now that Harry is refusing to answer any of Louis’ texts sent in the last hour, it seems he's got his answer.

Louis' hit another of Harry's few remaining nerves.

So now, determinedly _not_  thinking about Harry, Louis sucks mindlessly on a bag of heart-shaped sweets he found in a gift basket on the bed, debating whether or not he should go for a more ostentatious, current look; one that represents his clients' chosen brand at the moment, (mainly just Liam with all his Gucci) that they've recently been promoting, show off his job a bit. Or go for a more understated ensemble and blend in with the crowd, drawing as little attention to himself as possible. 

And he’s pretty much desperate to get into and stay in Harry’s good graces, so if he picks a table as far from the Styles’ as possible this time, shooting him unfriendly glances throughout the evening like he asked, maybe Harry will soften up again.

Otherwise he may as well go home.

Because yes, when he got the invitation, he freaked out that Harry would be here, but perhaps he was secretly (definitely) thankful for this bone the universe had thrown him, taking pity on Louis’ lack of communication skills and zero balls when it came to admitting how much he misses this boy. And maybe he’d also quietly decided that he would use this wedding to attempt to rebuild what they let float away all those years ago without a word.

Fuck, now he’s making himself sad.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, shoving another handful of candy hearts into his gob.

But seeing as it’s likely everyone is going to be staring at Louis no matter what he wears this evening-now that a lot of Harry’s relatives are aware there was, at the very least _, something_  going on between them, he decides to go for a simple, silky black shirt, buttoning it up to the collar and selecting a tight pair of silver grey trousers, hair styled purposely messy with a fringe. (If the thought that Harry’s always preferred a fringe crosses his mind, he’s going to pretend it didn’t.)

(And hope Harry notices.)

Louis slumps back onto the bed, disregarding his sweets for a minute while he drops his joggers and starts to get changed, hoping whom he’s sat with won’t ask too many questions about Harry. He knows this is what he signed up for when he agreed to Harry’s stupid idea but just how effective is this plan of Harry’s going to end up? It could easily backfire with everyone outright asking about the two of them instead of shutting them all up like Harry wanted and thought would happen.

They’re a gossipy bunch of people, Louis’ noticed.

It seems to Louis, all Harry really needs is a boost with his self-esteem. His life will turn out how he wants eventually.

But Harry has definitely not thought this through and Louis definitely hasn’t.

Especially when he’s all too aware that all he wants to do is kiss Harry, half-hoping Harry’ll change his mind and want to pretend they’re together or something. And he’ll have to give him a staged kiss and pray it kick-starts something in Harry’s brain and makes him want more of where it came from.

And Louis is seriously entering Pining Mood.

He sighs dramatically, and continues to suck heartily on another likely expensive (and quite bland) candy heart, frowning deeply as he slips his legs into his trousers and fastens his belt.

He’s not even hungry either. He’s felt sick for the last hour since Harry disappeared into his bathroom and left Louis to crawl out to find his own, dazed and confused with why Harry seemed suddenly pissed off when he thought they were _finally_  making some progress that wouldn’t backtrack again.

And the hot steam of the shower Louis took has only made his nausea worse.

But of course his current state is likely down to a combination of the sheer amount of gin he’s consumed in a short space of time, possible heatstroke, and too much worrying about probably having upset Harry.

Again.

On top of, you know, the whole leaving after they slept together and never getting back in contact debacle that apparently Harry has never gotten over. Oh, and the second (Louis assumes sexual) encounter they shared that Louis doesn’t even recall happening. (He mentally adds that to the list of things he's determined to ambush Harry about.) There's probably more things Harry would insist he is responsible for, but that’s the general gist so far.

And still all he can think about is Harry.

Louis growls low in his throat. He was  _fine_ before. Absolutely fucking fine and dandy. Before he thought it was a marvellous idea to take a quick trip to the record store and stumble into the boy he’d thought was a long-distant memory. And not, say, the one who got away. Nope.  _Nope_. (Because that’s a pointless mindfuck he does not need right now.)

Louis sighs loudly once more, fumbling inside his tight trouser pocket to retrieve his phone, tapping out a quick message to settle his incessant doubts about later managing to catch Harry alone, and away from prying eyes, to just fucking  _talk_  about things.

_**You and me need to talk** _

It takes a minute or two for a response to come through, leaving Louis nibbling on his already blunt, short nails while he anxiously waits, his insides feeling like they’re about to come tumbling out of every loose valve in his body. (Wherever those may be located.)

_Talk?_

_**Yeah** _

_Why?_

Louis furrows his brows instantly, indignant.

_**What do you mean why?? Because we do. Clearly** _

_About?_

Louis stares at his phone, carefully choosing his words before he gives in and vagues—as usual.

_**You and me. A lot of things actually** _

There isn't another reply for fifty-four seconds. Louis counts them.

_**Harry?** _

_Yes?_

"Oh for god’s sake," Louis mutters, throwing his head back and counting to three. “This  _boy_.”

He punches out a more irate response.

_**Are you trying to wind me up on purpose?** _

_No?_

_**Are you seriously going to answer me with one word every time?** _

_Dunno_

_**Well that’s technically two words as it’s an abbreviation** _

_Shush_

_**We’re texting?????** _

_So?_

_**HARRY** _

_Louis._

_**You’re a brat!!! Haven’t you grown out of these games by now???** _

_Look who’s talking_

An incensed groan escapes him and Louis throws his phone onto the bed with a hazardous bounce, yelling in frustration. He checks the time on his phone. It’s almost a quarter to eight now.

 _Fine. Meet you downstairs in five minutes,_  is Harry’s more sensible reply.

Louis is annoyed and wound up and he’s not even at this thing yet. He’s really not in the fucking mood to play games, and certainly not feeling anywhere near willing to put up with unsubtle questions from Harry’s nosy relatives tonight. Most of whom were lovely earlier but Louis is exhausted of this and there’s still four more days of it.

Socialising for another few hours? That’s a hard no from Louis. He’s all out of charm. He just doesn’t have the energy. Leave him be. He wants to suffer over a long-lost crush silently. Thank you.

Ugh. If Louis had just come on his own to this wedding as normal and only turned up to the stag night as he originally planned, he wouldn’t have to be doing any of this.

But then he wouldn’t have got this second chance to put things right with Harry. To put it all to bed, as it were. (Not literally. Even if Louis really wouldn’t mind re-visiting that particular activity.)

“Right. Guess the interlude is over and the play resumes,” Louis says aloud, sighing to himself, resigned to an evening of dodging persistent, personal questions regarding his relationship with Harry and trying his best to sound neutral.

Harry wants him to act more hostile towards him so people will sense the tension but. Louis isn’t really that keen. He doesn’t want to upset Anne.

But anyway, here he goes then. He slips into his loafers, spritzes some aftershave on and is about to pop a mint in his mouth.

Actually. On second thought.

Louis hastily rushes over to the mini bar and empties its contents a tad aggressively until he finds a cute little bottle of Jack Daniels. He downs it in one gulp and shudders brusquely, squinting at the burn that warms his throat.

“Okay,” he croaks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Time to please a Harry Styles because clearly I’m a whipped idiot who doesn’t know when to quit.”

Louis frees another weary groan, takes a deep breath, and pats his back pocket for his phone, wallet and room key.

He slams the door behind him.

**

Harry doesn’t mean to be bratty. He hates that he ends up being exactly that, but he just has a lot of feelings that he never knows how to keep a lid on without becoming overly aloof and distant. He’s human. Sue him. Not that he has more than a few quid to his name at this current point in time, but there you go. Life is shit.

It’s also not fair.

Because why is the universe testing him like this? Why can’t Louis be available  _now_? Why can’t Harry just say what’s on his mind to the beautiful idiot? Why is he such a fucking knob sometimes? Why is Harry even pretending to everyone here that Louis is his ex-boyfriend?  _Why_ ,  _really_? These all are serious questions that Harry would love to answer.

He adjusts his shirt collar and undoes the buttons down to chest, the ruffles of his sleeves not exactly ideal for eating in a restaurant when they’re likely going to be dipping into his food. And it’s  _white_. But Harry never does the practical thing. He really does seem to like making things impossible for himself.

He looks around for Louis as he gets to the lobby, frowning slightly when he can’t see him. He’s about to tap out another text when he sees him.

Louis. Hovering around the table in which his mother is sat at.

No. No. No.  _Less is more, Louis! Less is more._

**

Louis enters the hotel’s restaurant: softly lit, smooth and a sleek dining area, the lights warm and muted, amber and coffee coloured, and it’s nice. There’s dark leather seating atop the chairs and lots of crimson and burgundy, fancy candelabras placed in the centre of each pristinely white table. (And there’s carpet. Because hotels love their carpets.)

The clashing scents of differing perfumes and aftershaves fester around with the air conditioning, the aromas a bit overbearing to Louis’ nostrils, but the coolness soothes Louis’ agitated and jittery manner this evening. Kinda. (Well, considering he’s been roasting like a pig on a barbecue so far, it actually really is.)

He politely acknowledges the waiter who escorts him further into the restaurant, searching for the Styles’ tables, planning on picking one far, far away, and Louis wishes he’d had a cigarette beforehand when his eyes find Matty and Beth and the rest of their families already sitting down and engaged in friendly conversation.

Gemma and Anne seem to have just got here too, and Louis slathers on a bright smile when Anne typically notices him straight away, her eyes lighting up and immediately calling him over with all the familiarity of Louis being a close family friend.

Oh, god. So, alright, it’s  _nice_. Lovely, even, that Anne seems to think so much of Louis—and if this was five years ago, Louis would have been ecstatic at the fact that Harry’s mum liked him. But now it just reminds him of what he lost, what he pines for like the desperate man he is. Even if Louis is very slowly working on Harry, attempting to wear his new, toughened exterior down, trying to remind him in pieces of why they were so close in the first place. Kind of? Louis’ trying, anyway. It's obviously not working as well as he’d hoped. Especially when they can’t stop bickering for more than five minutes. Not that that’s unusual, but the  _bite_  to the words is.

“Louis, love!” Anne calls, a bright smile on her kind face, oozing a benevolence and such an open, affable nature that makes Louis feel comfortable and welcomed. “Over here.”

Louis waves instantly, cursing as he reluctantly goes over to her. “Hi, Anne. Lovely to see you again,” he greets excitedly, feeling slightly buzzed after that shot of whiskey.

“We only saw each other a few hours ago,” she laughs, lowering her sparkly handbag to the table.

“And it was far too long.” Louis laments, puts on his best charm and shoots her a wink as he pecks her cheek. “I’ve been pining for you, Anne. Every second away has been torturous.”

He may be trying it on a bit too hard.

“Oh, stop it, you,” Anne giggles feverishly, playfully giving his chest a light tap. “Honestly.”

Gemma rolls her eyes amusedly, a slight grin making its way onto her dark red lips. “God,” she mutters.

“Gemma,” he nods, attempting to stay neutral but Gemma has a wicked smirk on her face as soon as they lay eyes on each other.

“Louis,” she replies. “Good to see my brother hasn’t offed you yet. Thought I’d be checking his room for bodies later.”

Anne ceases her amusement, her brows pinching together in slight puzzlement. “Oh. Has something happened between the two of you, dear?”

“No, no!” Louis says a bit too frantically. “Everything’s fine.” Which. Shit. Why did he do that? Isn’t he supposed to hinting at some animosity here?

“Really?” Anne perks up.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s all good,” Louis finds himself insisting. What is he doing? He’s meant to be perpetuating the idea that Harry and Louis are not amiable exes at all. That’s what they’re going to have to go with. Because Harry’s family clearly will stop at nothing to remedy what’s going on.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he thinks. The things he’ll do for this boy, however juvenile and illogical.

“Oh, I’m  _so_ glad to hear that. He’s missed you, you know.” Anne smiles. Genuinely. Like she’s relieved or  _hopeful_ , or something along those lines? Optimistic. Definitely that.

Fuck.

Cleary she’s keen on Harry and Louis getting along and that’s suspicious to Louis. He’s hoping to God that she doesn’t fancy herself a matchmaker or this meal is going to be excruciating. And Harry will be here soon. Any minute now...

Nausea is rising again. He’s so nervous for some inexplicable reason. And he doesn’t think he can blame _this_  on its own.

 _Exes_ , he reminds himself. Fake exes, but exes nonetheless. They’re not friends. And certainly not possible boyfriends—which he fears is definitely Anne’s hope. Anne doesn’t even know about the rumours they’ve spread yet, does she?

“Really. I hope you’ve had a good catch up? You used to be such good friends at university? I’m sure Harry would love to spend some time with you.” She grins wider, seemingly pleased as she moves to take a seat.

Louis hurries to pull her chair out for her in his panicked state. His silk shirt is sticking to his clammy skin, itching for a cigarette to calm his nerves.

Anne responds by looking at Louis as though he’s just gifted her with a surprise, extravagant bouquet of two dozen roses.

Oh, great. This is just getting better by the second. Harry’s gonna throw a fit when he finds out Anne’s practically picked out their colour arrangement for their upcoming spring wedding.

Louis grins, gesturing for her to sit. “Have a seat, Anne. Make yourself comfy. And may I just say you look absolutely gorgeous tonight,” he says, voice smothered in oversaturated niceness but Anne seems completely taken by it.

“Oh, you’re too kind, sweetheart,” Anne laughs, still beaming at him. “You look awfully handsome yourself. Proper grown up now. Why don’t you sit by me?” she says hopefully.

Oh, shit. Harry’s gonna kill him.

“Uh...” Louis’ heart starts to thump rapidly. He has to get away from this table. There is no way he is sitting here with whole immediate Harry’s family. With _Harry_  here, too. That is so not the plan.

And of course, Harry chooses  _now_  to enter the restaurant. He hasn’t seen them yet, smoothing his hands over his ruffled white shirt, strutting in with all the air of a fucking prince from the Renaissance, looking illegally sexy, weakening Louis’ poor, sexually-frustrated anatomy.

His eyes vaguely scan the surroundings, giving people small smiles while looking for familiar faces. Louis stares at him. Hypnotised.

“Have a sit down, then, Louis.”

Louis turns back to Anne. “Sorry?”

Gemma’s staring at him with somewhat mildly uneasy eyes, when there’s a buzz in Louis’ back pocket.

_Do not fucking sit at that table_

“Louis?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you sitting down with us?” Anne laughs. “Come on,” she says, patting the seat next to her expectantly. Gemma coughs into her fist as she takes the other seat next to her mum, instantly seeking out the red wine.

_Louis_

_Move_

_Now_

_I’m serious_

“Of course I am!” Louis announces animatedly, an enthused grin stuck to his face. “As if I’d sit anywhere else.”

He glances over at Harry, who’s mouthing at him ferociously, shaking his head. Louis gulps, shuffles his seat closer to the table, launching into greeting the rest of the table with a tight smile in place.

**

Harry tries to subtly get past their table without his mum noticing, since she seems to be distracted and dazzled by Louis’ presence again, intending on sitting with some of his second cousins instead (even willing to be the only one sat without a partner), but the woman has eyes like an eagle’s, aware of even the slightest sound a mile away from her. It’s why he never got away with anything as child. She always knew exactly what he’d been up to.

He hopes she doesn’t still have that superpower now.

“Um. Harry Edward? Just where do you think you’re going?”

He can’t sit with Louis at the table with his whole family present and hanging off their every interaction. He just cannot. And besides, Louis is meant to be far away, shooting constant glares in his direction so that it makes people uncomfortable enough to not ask Harry what the deal is. Maybe they’ll feel so awkward that they won’t ask him  _anything._

_Pfft. You should be so lucky._

This whole stupid thing with Louis was meant to keep people off Harry’s back with personal questions. It was supposed to deter them from asking Harry a single thing about his love life. Not actively encourage them with a front row view of the show, eager to stir the possibility of a reunion between them. Because that’s where this will end up. His family are like a group of annoying matchmakers.                            

He’s sweating profusely already. Great look, Harry. Sporting grossly sweaty, stale pits in front of your...uh...Louis?  _Your Louis._  Jesus. He’s not even had another lick of gin yet.

God help him, and Louis looks completely gorgeous. He tries to push away the throbbing ache in his chest, focusing on the annoyance and exasperation he feels at Louis for doing the exact opposite of what they agreed, trying hard to keep his mood off his face.

But Harry also wants to tear his clothes off immediately and mark up his collarbones that he’s hiding under that fitted, silky shirt. Cop a feel of that illegally peachy bum, maybe throw in a few cheek kisses and hold his hand, too, some casual breathing in the smell of his hair. He wonders if it will still smell like coconut and...

Harry has officially lost it. “Huh? Oh, I’m...uh,” he grins cheekily, cheeks flaming. “I’m just coming.”  _Coming._   _Dear god._

“Right,” Anne grins back. “Well anytime tonight, love, eh?” The rest of the table chuckles. Harry forces out a silly laugh and drops it as soon as his mum turns back to Louis, who looks half-terrified Harry is going to have him smothered in his sleep.

(Smothered with Harry’s limbs clutched around his more like.)

No, as it happens, Harry doesn’t want to do that. As long as Louis behaves and doesn’t show Harry up by going back on their plan, Harry is fine with Louis.

He’s fine.

All Louis needs to do is pretend Harry doesn’t exist and if the atmosphere is awkward enough, who would be the one to disrupt that and cause things to go further south? No one at the table, surely?

“Hiyaaa. Hellooo.” Harry sunnily asks the rest of his family seated around the table, a chorus of perky replies being shot back at him, candles lit and wine glasses already being topped up. Harry is rather peckish more than anything else, so if the food menus could arrive in the next five seconds, that would be fantastic. 

Okay, sit.

And... fuck.

Harry is left with no other option than to take the empty seat directly opposite Louis, facing him head on with nowhere to hide, acutely aware that everyone who’s heard the rumours is watching them with bated breath, waiting to see what's going to happen.

A front seat to see if Harry and Louis will acknowledge each other. 

_Just don't look at him._

“Alright, so how is everyone?” Harry greets the surrounding faces. “Already started drinking, I see. Bunch of alkies. All of you,” he smirks, decidedly not meeting Louis’ eyes.

“Speak for yourself, you cheeky git,” Matty laughs, squeezing Harry’s bicep affectionately. “Alight, mate?” His tone switches to a quieter one, giving Harry a small smile.

Harry fights his face muscles to stop himself from frowning. “Um. I’m good, yeah. You?” he replies casually. “I’m sure you’re loving all this hoo ha, eh?” he grins. “Center of attention?”

“Immensely, mate. Immensely,” Matty says sarcastically.

Beth gives him a disgruntled shove.

“Ow.”

“You _will_  have a nice time, and you  _will_  love the daisy gardens and the cake tasting,” she jokes, face besotted. “Even if you are allergic to gluten.”

“Yes, love,” Matty sings, and they both start giggling. “I’ll even pick them as well.”

Harry pretends to gag, while trying to rein in the fond.

“You’ve gone quiet, Louis. What do you fancy, then?” Beth asks him now, her face lit up with a smile so wide, even Matty is looking a bit miffed at the attention. She’s leaning into Louis with her menu, sharing it with him.

Louis’ eyes are boring right into Harry.

“Louis?”

“Huh?” Louis yelps.

“What you having? I’m going for the steak myself.”

“Oh, seriously, I’m not fussy. All I know is I just need something in my mouth right bloody now,” Louis half-groans, just as the male waiter arrives by his side.

Louis’ neck fans out in a bright blush. The waiter looks particularly pleased, too, as the table erupts into amused giggles. Even his mum shields her eyes with her hand, smiling between her fingers.

Harry smirks when Louis’ embarrassed gaze seeks out his automatically, which is quickly wiped off when Louis keeps the momentum going, embarrassment short-lived and transforming into impish delight when he sees Harry isn’t looking away.

“Something salty, you know? But not too sour.” Louis keeps his gaze connected with Harry’s and now Harry is the one furiously blushing. “Something that gets the taste buds going on me tongue.”

Beth finds this hilarious. “Very detailed description of your eating habits.”

“Oh, Louis,” Matty starts to laugh, the others following.

“What did I say?” Louis asks innocently, grinning. He winks at Harry. Harry sinks into his chair, feeling like a schoolboy with a crush under Louis’ attention.

He watches everyone latch back onto him, keeping up the banter and Harry’s heart clenches.

Louis fits in so well.

But Louis, sitting here and effortlessly able to charm all his family and relatives (and their damn dogs too probably) with easy teasing that skirts just on the edge of acceptable... well, it’s beginning to become unbearable. It makes Harry want to constantly reach out and touch him, claim him, show everyone he’s pleased as punch that he’s Louis’ boy.

He’s having to witness Louis’ sunny smiles and the way his eyes are dancing with wit and allure, and Harry has to say nothing. He watches as Louis’ face scrunches up with happiness as he receives a bucket full of laughter in response to him telling story after story about his experiences since moving to London; the overpriced coffee, the over-crowded tubes, the exciting nightlife. Listening to how happy Louis is down there.

And he’s experienced all of it without Harry knowing about any of it. Not that Harry’s entitled to know any of this. Obviously. Just because he was his best friend once, doesn’t mean this is any of Harry’s business.

It’s Louis’ life, and Louis’ alone.

Obviously.

It just stings. Because they could have had that _together_. If Louis had told him. If Louis had asked. They could have spent the last five years together.

If only Louis had asked him.

Maybe Harry would have said yes.

Oh, who is he trying to kid? Harry would have jumped at the chance to move down to London with Louis.

Everything feels gloomy and still, bursting with static, the restaurant bustling around him as he sits, distant laughter ringing faintly in his ears. And the thought of what could have been if they weren’t both so stubborn and shit at communicating sends an unsettling coolness though him, down his spine and prickling his innards with sharp little blades. Because of course it does. Because Harry’s being selfish, and possessive, and let’s face it: a meanie. He’s done nothing but blow hot and cold (mostly cold) with Louis since he obliviously waltzed back into Harry’s life, seemingly very confused and remorseful about the whole thing.

Instead, Harry chose to bury his feelings rather than tell Louis outright how he feels.

Because he’s an idiot.

Harry gazes at the soft blinks Louis takes as he listens to the others talk, the delicate flicker of his eyelashes catching the light, the slow gulps he takes making his golden throat bob, the gentle way his feathery fringe falls across his forehead.

Meanwhile a persistent fizziness takes up residence in Harry’s bloodstream.

And then he realises.

The conversation has veered into a different direction and now Louis is talking about  _them._

Harry shakes out of his now frequent pathetic melancholic reveries to hear the conversation steering into dangerous territory.

“So how long exactly have you known Harry?” Beth innocently asks, pretending like she doesn’t know about Harry and Louis’ past friendship and the fact they roomed together for three years. She seems like she’s heard the gossip though, as Matty nudges her arm atop the table with his hand.

Beth glances at Matty and shrugs.

Harry freezes, his face immediately turning pink. Thank goodness no one’s looking at him right now. (Or he wouldn’t know if they were because his eyes are firmly glued to the starter in front of him.)

“Coming up to nine years, I reckon?” Louis replies simply, which makes Harry’s head not-so-subtly whip up to him. He’s seemingly unbothered, his shoulders relaxed and posture loose, a button undone on his collar now.

Harry’s eyes struggle not to linger on the slither of unblemished skin. Because clearly he has a problem.

Beth nods along, enthralled, bringing the rim of her glass to her lips. “And you guys haven’t seen each other in a while, right?”

“Uh, not for a while, no.” Louis’ unwavering smile falters for the first time since Harry sat down. His eyes connect with Harry’s minutely. “We’ve kind of been a bit shoddy in the keeping-in-touch department lately.”

Which is more than a bit true. Everyone stays quiet for a beat or three.

“It must be nice to catch up, then? With you all the way down in London for the last five years and Harry up here with us?” Beth continues, smiling encouragingly, only egged on more by Jamie who seems to be thoroughly entertained by this whole exchange, eyes flitting from Louis to Harry and back again persistently.

It’s bloody annoying.

“It’s... uh, it’s been—interesting, shall we say?” Louis lightly chuckles, taking a sip of his drink—red wine, this time—a large gulp, in fact.

Harry’s eyes stay fastened to him, noticing the slump in Beth’s grin when she doesn’t get the response she was looking for. Whatever that is.

“You’d seen each other during the last couple of years, though, surely?” his mum then asks, her brows furrowed but her mouth still etched in a half-smile.

“What?” Harry replies dumbly.

He sees Gemma in his peripherals pouring out some more wine, coughing indiscreetly.

“Harry had a work placement in Central London. I’m surprised you didn’t bump into him, Louis—well, if you happened to be around Sloane Square quite a bit!” Anne laughs, a twinkle in her eye. "Harry likes it round there." Harry knows what that look is for. She’s definitely intent on putting her matchmaking shades on.

Lord. Harry’s wants to escape right now immediately.

“Mum. London’s huge. You don’t just randomly bump into everyone on every street. It’s hard enough getting through the crowds to cross the road without dying, let alone notice someone you know.”

“Well, surely you met up at some point? At least once?”

“Yeah, no, uh...” Louis coughs, interjecting before Harry starts drenching the tablecloth in his sweat. “Um. We were both pretty busy, so there wasn’t a lot of time to... have lunch, and catch up and all that really.” Louis pauses, realisation dawning on his face that they’re both slipping up and not really acting as though they were in a past relationship.

Like the exes they agreed they’re supposed to be.

Which is a tidbit of false information everyone is aware of—apart from Harry’s mother.

Whom also seems to be attempting to arrange a fucking engagement here at the table like they’re in a bloody Jane Austen novel.

"Well, you have some time to do that now," she smiles sneakily.

“Mum,” Harry says helplessly. He wonders just how much of his gushing about Louis she does actually remember.

And by the looks of things, she might have recalled a few more details than Harry would like.

Which is bloody wonderful. Exactly what he needs right now.

Now several pairs of confused eyes are roaming between them around the table, clearly wondering why Anne’s going on about Harry and Louis as passing friends if they were supposed to be dating at the time Harry did that placement.

“How long were you working there for again, love? It was an intern position at a fashion magazine, wasn’t it? Very trendy. Harry did the weekly looks.”

Louis’ eyes now find Harry’s, a puzzled and surprised look on his face, his eyebrows raises in question.

“About a year. Just under, I think,” Harry answers after a stretch of awkward silence at the table.

Everyone’s staring at them with piqued interest. Jamie looks like he’s about to break out the popcorn, Carol’s hanging on their every move as she munches on an olive, and Gemma widens her eyes at him, about to open her mouth when a tipsy Jamie decides to spill the goss.

“Oh,” Jamie drawls like he’s realised something, brows pulling together. “So was that the start of it? The beginning of the end? If you guys never saw each other, I mean?”

“Jamie,” Matty frowns. “C’mon, mate. Leave it.”

“What? I was just asking,” he mutters, fogging up his wine glass. Harry glares at him, shaking his head. “Am I not allowed to ask a question?” he pouts.

Harry rolls his eyes.

“How long are you up here in Manchester, Louis?” His mother asks instead, her brows knitted in slight confusion.

“Well, originally I was up here for work. But I think once the wedding is over, I’m straight back down to London again.”

“Oh, that’s a shame that you have to rush off. We’ll just have to make the most of you while you’re here, won’t we?” Anne smiles.

Harry internally flinches.

Jamie snorts. “Harry just might,” he whispers to Beth.

Before Harry can interject and switch the conversation, his uncle returns from the bathroom, distracting his mum, who is then pulled into a loud chat with another of his aunties. Harry breathes a sigh of relief, catching Gemma’s eye. She gives him a reassuring smile and swipes another drink out of Jamie’s hand. He’s well and truly wasted.

Harry’s about to take a massive gulp of wine himself when he almost throws the thing in the air, jolting in surprise when he feels a foot slide slowly up his leg, hooking their ankle with Harry’s.

He whips his head up to see Louis staring back at him, a smirk curving his lips, his eyes alight with mischief. Harry doesn’t know whether to touch him back or kick him.

Louis lets his foot travel further, and this time, his foot completely leaves his shoe, Louis’ toes delicately caressing his calve, sending a shiver through Harry as he gulps down his wine, looking anywhere but at Louis, who’s now slowly edging his way up towards the inner seam of his thigh. He pokes at it, moving to the left, and resting on— Harry’s eyes widen, stifling a gasp with his fist.

He coughs dramatically and opts with kicking him lightly in the shin for now, baffled with his brazen behaviour. Wouldn’t Liam mind that his boyfriend is playing fucking footsie with him under the table? Are they even still together?

What if they aren’t? Harry’s heart speeds up with expectation, hopefulness.

Louis slides his foot back down, taking a sip out of his own glass, his eyes fixated on Harry’s face. Luckily everyone seems to be engrossed in another conversation, the subject unbeknownst to Harry.

Until.

“What are we talking about?” he hears his mum say, her smile turning into more of a concerned grimace.

“They used to go out together, Auntie Anne,” Jamie un-whispers. “As in they’re  _boyfriends_ ,” he mouths exaggeratedly, ridiculously. “Were.”

Harry’s gaze glances up at the warmly lit, intricate amber lights dangling from the ceiling and keeps it there.

Gemma rolls her eyes, exhaling with a deep frown.

“What?” Anne’s eyes widen in shock. “You and Louis? You were  _together_? Together  _together_? In a relationship together?”

Harry pales, averting his gaze as his mum regards him with bewildered eyes.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she wonders aloud, a hint of hurt in her voice, and also confusion. Harry just wants to go. “When was this? Are you not still an item?”

“No. We’re not. Um... we ended a couple of years ago,” Harry forces out. “When I was staying with Gemma in London. It was a bit... things were difficult. So... it ended. And... yeah.”

“You were together about three years, though, weren’t you?” Jamie slurs, oblivious, and utterly drunk. “Did I get that right?” Gemma glares at him from the rim of her glass. “Right after graduation it must have started? I saw you two snogging against the exit that night. Yeah, yeah, I remember,” he grins, pointing a fucking finger at them like he’s in on the biggest secret, or something else ridiculous.

Harry can also tell his mum is trying to make sense of the timeline. “But I don’t understand? You were living in Manchester with us after uni? Louis was all the way down in London. How did that work?”

Harry has to bite his tongue from shooting back that it isn't difficult if you love someone. 

And then he remembers. This is pretend.

“It was a long-distance thing. We never saw each other and when we did, Louis was still busy with his photoshoots and fashion shows in the evenings and we’d just get into fights the whole time.”

Harry feels a horrible dip in his belly as he speaks, the words dire on his tongue, thinking about how if this were real, he’d fight like hell to make it work with Louis. He’d never give up on them. “That’s why it didn’t work.”

Except, he kind of did.

His chest tightens painfully. He meets Louis’ stunned gaze and Louis drops his instantly, switching to fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, the light catching on the silky ebony material.

“So that was the reason for all your moping around that time, was it?” Anne suddenly says, like a light bulb has gone off. Her voice turns hushed, though everyone can clearly still hear every word around the table. “Missing Louis?” she whispers to her son. “I _knew_ there was something going on with you two, or you wouldn’t have gotten so upset every time I mentioned—“ Her eyes widen in Louis’ direction. Not even slightly discreet. “And then when you came back from London... you were unhappier than you were when you _left_.”

“God,” Harry sighs. He abruptly stands up, his shirt collar suddenly feeling too tight around his neck. It’s not even buttoned to his neck, for Christ’s sake. His shirt is halfway to revealing his tits.

No, he feels like he can’t breathe because his mother’s wine-infused oversharing has just made it abundantly clear to Louis that Harry was an emotional wreck when Louis left for London.

Harry risks sliding his gaze back to Louis.

He shouldn’t have.

Because Louis’ eyes are now on him, wide and piercing, confused brows pulled together, thick dabs of something else ringing the intense blue of his irises. Guilt? But he looks very nearly appalled and the sight claws sharply at Harry’s chest, burning behind his eyes.

“Uh. Excuse me. ‘M just gonna use the bathroom really quickly,” Harry rushes out in a blind panic, keeping his eyes very wide and very still for fear tears will start to spill down his cheeks in front of his entire family.

(He doesn’t fancy trying to live that down.)

Anne’s face is pinched and Gemma’s eyeing him worriedly.

He doesn’t look at Louis again or else he really will crumble.

“Won’t be long.”

And with that, he’s away from the table and strutting straight for the bathroom.

Harry fumbles over to the sinks, staring at his flushed cheeks in the mirror and thinking about faking food poisoning despite the fact he’s not even eaten yet, when the door opens with an abrupt creak.

“Jesus!” Harry jumps. “You scared the shit out of me,” he tells Louis, who appears beside him, looking at him through his reflection.

Harry meets his gaze, keeping it carefully blank. He blindly fiddles with the taps like an idiot, waiting for Louis to ask him, like he probably wanted to last week.

“You were in London, too,” he states. “The same time as I was. For bloody months, Harry.”

“You already knew that. I told you this at the restaurant.” Harry frowns, puzzled by Louis’ expression, somewhere between curiosity and dare he say anticipation?

“And you never bothered to call.”

“Neither did you!”

“Well, why didn’t you ever delete my number?” Louis splutters instead, his face searching Harry’s as he visibly swallows. “If you had no intention of ever seeing me again?”

“What?” Harry tears his gaze away from his throat, meeting Louis’ eyes with rapid blinks.

" _You_ contacted _me_ to ask me to play this whole charade with you."

"Yes?"

"You still had my number."

Harry blinks, frowning. "And?"

“You could have deleted my contact," Louis says, eyes focused completely on Harry, gauging his face so intently that Harry feels exposed under his gaze. " _Or_ , you could have used it to call me, text me, message me in any shape or form if you were in the same fucking city as me, Harry. But no. You didn’t do that, and yet you still kept it. You didn’t get rid of it. You didn’t even change your number in the last five years.”

 _I could never get rid of you,_ Harry thinks hopelessly. “No,” is all he manages to actually say.

“Why not?”

There’s something flashing in Louis’ eyes, those eyes that hooked him, line and sinker, burying their colour beneath Harry’s skin and merging with his innards, stamping their hue firmly enough into Harry’s brain so that he’s never forgotten their exact shade: swimming pool blue.

“Because you thought _I_ would still call?” Louis’ eyes are large and unblinking, his tone softer.

Cerulean, sparkling, ocean _blue._

Because he’s sad like that.

Harry remembers it whenever he’s agreed to a drink with a sweet guy who’s easy on the eye. He remembers when they’re taking a taxi home together. He remembers when he’s staring into their eyes, feeling a surge of disappointment that there’s no spark, that there’s no other colour more alluring or familiar to him, and then kicking himself for ruining it.

Harry clears his throat; it feels thick and heavy, and he lowers his gaze to the floor, focusing on the shine of Louis’ tan loafers, feebly feigning nonchalance. “It just got left in there. Too much hassle to change my number. Don’t read into it.”

It’s such a lie, just sitting limp there, acrid on his tongue.

Louis arches a brow, his mouth stamped into a firm line, evidently unconvinced. No surprises there. “I think you’re lying.”

Harry scoffs, trying to draw attention away from his hot cheeks. “Think what you like,” he breathes tiredly, running a hand though his short hair.

“I just don’t get it! If I hurt you so much, if you hated me,” Louis says, brows pinched, his mouth curved into a grimace, “well, then why wouldn’t you just delete it? Surely you wouldn’t want my name in your phone as a reminder whenever you passed by ‘L’?” he questions, narrowing his eyes, but softens when Harry quietly glances back up, keeping his gaze steady with Louis’.

Harry shrugs. “It’s not that deep, Louis. You read too much into things.” His tone his breathier than he intended, low and hushed.

Louis gives him sceptical tilt of his head, prompting him to take an deliberate step closer to where Harry has moved his back to lean against the sink, his hands resting on the shiny marble around it.

“Another lie,” he says, his gaze still intent on Harry's face.

Harry’s heart gives another weak pang. He takes another step forward when Harry doesn’t respond, just silently tried to control the volcano threatening to erupt inside him, energy buzzing beneath his skin as he takes in the fact that their bodies are just a breath away from touching.

Harry seriously might implode if Louis gets any closer, and yet his traitorous limbs are frozen, determined to stay exactly where they are. His heart stutters, incapable of looking away. His undone collar suddenly feels extra tight around his throat, his belly swooping.

“Why did you come to London?” 

It’s so quiet, said so softly that Harry nearly doesn’t hear him, just watches, transfixed with the way his lips barely move.

Harry frowns, fighting his eyelids because they so desperately want to close. “Because Gemma was there.”

"That's all?"

"I was lucky enough to secure an internship. So I took it. It was a fantastic opportunity." 

“Right.” His breath tickles Harry’s chin.

“I needed to find work. To write. London was the best place for that.”

Louis has the ghost of a smile curved on his face. “You could have written anywhere.”

“Not everywhere had what I was looking for,” he says firmer, his breath cut short when Louis slowly lifts a hand and gently clutches Harry’s waist. He can barely breathe.

“And what did you come looking for, Harry?”

Harry frowns harder, a spike of irritation surging to the surface amongst the increasingly heady, potent air around them, bubbling inside his veins, dragging Harry under. He tries his best to sound even. “Are you trying to imply I went to London with the intention of bumping into you?” he accuses incredulously, cheeks aflame. “You actually think I was thinking of you when I moved there? That I did it for you?”

Because... well. He kinda, maybe... did. A bit.

Look, so okay, it _was_ a great opportunity to work at a respected publishing company with the placement he was offered, and he was eager to take it obviously. He wanted to write and he’d always wanted to do it in London. But whenever the city came up as an option, the first thing Harry’s treacherous, pathetic, pining brain thought of was Louis.

So, yes. Louis did influence his decision a bit. A lot.

(He’s not proud of it.)

“Because I didn’t,” he denies, hating the way his voice wavers, dips in the middle with an affected, wet croak. “You’re flattering yourself way too much if you think I’d go all the way down there on the off-chance I’d happen to see you. Which is next to none. Because London... well, it’s quite big, innit?” His cheeks burn. “It wasn’t because of you, alright?” he lets his voice grow louder, aware he sounds defensive and not at all as confident as he wants to sound instead.

“Because you hate me that much,” Louis taunts as he clutches the other side of Harry’s waist, fingers gripping his hips tighter, noses almost brushing.

Harry might die, breaths are coming short and quick now, head dizzy.

“I don’t.”

Louis’ face twitches. “Don’t what?”

“I don’t hate you,” Harry murmurs quietly. “I never did. I don’t.”

Louis stills, stares.

Harry finds himself instinctively, lazily leaning backwards against the sink, legs bent so that they’re practically the same height, his forearms bent and resting atop it, breathing growing heavy as he stares back.

“What are you doing, Louis?” he breathes, eyes hyper-focused on Louis deliberately pressing against him, looking into both of Harry’s eyes, too intense, imploring when he rasps:

"Can I kiss you?”

Harry blinks at him rapidly, shocked that Louis would still actually want to. There’s so many things he wants to know, wants to ask him.

“You’ve never asked me that before,” Harry whispers, almost reverently, his belly swooping dramatically with butterflies.

Louis slowly closes the remaining gap between them, plants his nose against Harry’s cheek, and Harry’s breath stutters, fingertips prickling and chest tight with the very real possibility that Louis is about to kiss him.

Harry’s about to press his lips to Louis’ when he jolts back, a sobering realisation bringing him crashing back to earth. “Wait!” He puts a hand flat on Louis’ chest to keep him at bay. Louis, though, has other ideas, eyes closed and chasing Harry’s mouth. “What about Liam?” Harry gasps, eyes wide.

Louis’ brows knit in confusion. He looks fucking adorable, too. “What about Liam?” he repeats.

“We can’t do this if you’re still together, Lou?” Harry can't stop himself leaning into him instinctively, pressing his body firmly against Louis’, is just about to rest his hands on Louis’ waist when: “Oh. Sorry.”

Someone else enters the bathroom just as Louis says, “Still to—”, cutting him off and pulling them both out of the heady moment.

Harry lets out a disappointed breath when Louis hastily draws back and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. He turns to Harry with wide eyes and clears his throat. “Should we go back? I could...” he trails off, eyes roaming over Harry’s face, unsure.

“Could what?” Harry questions with a raised brow, swallowing hard as he tries to subtly get his bearings back; his mouth still aches to kiss him.

While Louis seems to be finding his words, Harry wonders what he’d do if Harry just surged forwards and pressed their lips together anyway.

“I could make it look like we’ve had a fight and leave early? Or now, maybe? I can go back upstairs and order room service, or something? You could sit back down, appearing all upset and no one will ask any more questions, yeah? Not unless they wanna upset you further? And that’s my ticket out of more Styles’ meals,” he smiles impishly.

Louis waits patiently, eyes briefly glancing at the cubicle door closing.

“Um...” Harry shifts uneasily on the spot, heart still in his throat and an awful dip in his stomach. “I guess... but. Well, don’t you want to at least wait until after you’ve eaten?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Louis shrugs. “It’s all messed up at the moment, anyway, isn’t it? Everyone’s halfway to setting us up on a date or locking us in a room together. And if I start something at the table, out of the blue now, it... well, it won’t look right, will it? And I don’t want to upset Anne by causing a scene directly. This’ll fix it a bit, yeah? That _is_  what you wanted, right?”

Harry nods reluctantly after a moment, the air awkward until the toilet flushes and Harry takes it as his cue to leave the bathroom. He turns to walk away from this darkened corner and back into the dimly lit corridor that leads to the restaurant when he’s gently tugged backwards by the crook of his elbow, the familiar press of fingers setting his nerves alight. He's not sure he can eat a thing now, a determined fluttering settling in his belly.

“Harry?” He turns around to see Louis’ glassy blue eyes blinking up at him, startled by the urgency in Louis’ voice.

“Yeah?” he whispers, heart lurching in his chest.

“Will you come by my room when you're done with the meal?" Louis' eyes are practically aglow. A pair of pleading blue lagoons. "Please. So we can talk? _Properly_.”

“Um.”

Louis just looks so hopeful, so young. The sight causes the thud of Harry’s heart to pang pointedly and he holds in a whimper, tingling all over.

How can Harry say no to this face?

He coughs. “Yeah, okay,” he gets out thickly, repressing a shiver when Louis’ hand begins to trail delicately down his arm, searing through the thin fabric of his shirt, thankfully stopping just short of Harry’s wrist, or he might combust on the spot. His feet hardly feel like they're touching the floor as Louis loosely grips the back of Harry's forearm.

Oh dear god, he just wants to grab his face and kiss him senseless. Can he please do that?

Then Louis lets go, Harry almost falling straight into his chest at the loss of Louis keeping him balanced.

“Good,” Louis breathes by his ear as he passes, sending a sharp shiver down Harry’s neck, tingling with want. “I’ll try and wait up for you,” he winks.

“Dinner won’t last _that_ long?” Harry says, mouth already curving into an endeared smile beyond his control.

“Yeah, well. I can’t promise I won’t pass out after a few whiskeys so if I manage to still be awake come ten, that’s a proud feat of mine, Harold. You should be flattered.”

Harry can’t stop the beam from spreading over his cheeks, huffing out a laugh.

Louis’ responding smile almost makes him faint.

“Fuck,” Harry says aloud, as he watches Louis try to stealthily dart out of the restaurant with a quick wink.

**

It’s late when Harry finally taps softly at Louis’ door.

Really late.

But Louis waited up, just barely refraining from bombarding Harry with overly desperate, needy texts about him hurrying up down there and coming to his room for fear of sounding like he was propositioning him, about to let ‘ _so we can talk_ ’ become a euphemism for ‘ _let’s bang_ ’. Which it’s not. Of course it’s not. Alright, so they nearly kissed in the bathroom, but they didn’t.

Louis’ not about to get his hopes up for nothing. Let’s just see how this talk goes first, shall we?

So now—because it’s almost midnight and Louis’ had a very long and stressful day—he’s in the middle of dozing off, startled by Harry's continuous knocking.

“Louis?” comes Harry’s deep, rumbling voice, caressing his limbs through the door.

It’s music to Louis’ ears and it’s fucking wonderful.

Pushing the half-eaten pizza box off his chest, and moving a few empty bottles to the floor, Louis stretches his limbs and rolls toward the direction of Harry repeating his name, opening the door to a slightly dishevelled, ruby-lipped and wide-eyed Harry, staring back at Louis unblinkingly.

His shirt is now obscenely undone to his sternum (and then some) and his ruffled sleeves have been shoved up to his elbows.

And his shiny boots are pointed inwards, slowly brushing over the corridor’s coffee coloured carpet unsteadily, hands behind his back.

He’s the cutest thing Louis' ever seen.

“I’m awaaake,” he drawls, eyes drooping closed. He opens them with a sigh and gives Harry a quick once over (which hastily sobers him up), gaze lingering on the pale, smooth skin poking out from his shirt. Harry’s eyes stay steadily fixed to Louis’ face.

“I see that.”

Harry’s also smiling. Sleepily. And a lot tipsily. But smiling nonetheless.

Louis’ belly flutters violently. It’s a bloodbath of roses in there.

He tuts exaggeratedly. “Cover up, Styles."

Harry blinks, eyes quickly darting downwards, mouth dozily mirroring the action as he checks himself.

"Don’t you know it’s rude to shove ones’ nipples into a non-consenting man’s face at this hour?”

Harry is now taking rapid, flustered blinks in response. Louis rolls his eyes, giving him a mild, smug glare, padding back over to the mess of sheets that is currently his bed.

“Are you tired?” he hears Harry quietly ask.

“Junk food makes me sluggish.” Then he hears the quiet click of the door behind him and equally as quiet footsteps following him over to the bed.

Louis plants his face down into the tangled blankets and generously padded pillows, tossing and turning until there’s an obvious dip in the mattress beside him.

Soft, tentative fingertips prod gingerly at his arm.

“What?” Louis groans.

There’s a beat of silence. “You wanted to talk?”

“That was _hours_ ago,” he says on a huff. “What were you lot doing down there? Eating for England?” Louis says, words muffled in the pillow.

“Um. Sorry. We just, um—we went for drinks at the bar afterwards. Had a bit too much, I think,” Harry squints on a hiccup.

Louis smiles. So bloody cute.

“So what did they say?”

“Huh?” Harry looks to be on the verge of passing out at any moment. Louis fights the urge to pull him down and cuddle him.

Instead, Louis turns over onto his side, watching as Harry seemingly debates whether or not he’s allowed to move closer, his pretty eyelids beginning to flutter with sleepiness. “You can lie down, you know. I don’t bite.” He smirks. "Much."

Harry eyes him a moment before he does so, carefully, making sure not to let his body touch Louis’.

“When I didn’t come back to the table,” Louis continues. “What did you tell them?”

“Oh,” Harry remembers, face smushed on the pillow facing him. “Uh, I sat back down looking upset, and when they asked where you were, I just said you had to go and that I didn’t want to talk about it. Everyone looked pretty awkward after that,” he giggles. “No more was said. I felt a bit bad actually,” he then says, pouting.

“Hope your mum doesn’t mind,” Louis murmurs, a pang in his chest at her wondering where he so rudely disappeared to without explanation.

“Are you mad at me?” Harry asks timidly after a few, stretched-out moments in which Louis wants the bed to devour him whole. “For taking so long?” he quickly adds.

Mad at him? 

Louis frowns, tipping his head to the side in lieu of responding.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just thought I’d be the one asking  _you_. You know, since you’ve been quite volatile towards mesince the second your eyes clapped back on my wonderful self.”

Harry’s lips form a mild pout, twitching. He takes a deep breath and exhales heavily.

“But,” Louis takes a breath of his own, “I did want to talk. About that. About us.” He studies Harry’s expression. It’s not cold per se, but it seems like his features are warring with themselves, deciding whether or not he should lower his guard or build it up so high that Louis will never get back over again. He’d need a fucking tall ladder to do that, that’s for bloody certain.

“I’ll go first, shall I? Since you’re not about to lay it all on me,” Louis meekly jokes.

Harry stares down his long and lean body to his shoes, toeing the heel of his right one. His hands are clasped together, resting atop his belly. He slowly turns to meet Louis’ eyes, nose a few inches away from where Louis’ own hand is rested atop the pillow between them.

“You know I never meant to hurt you when I left, right? I didn't know why you... I didn’t realise you'd care that much."

"Of course I'd bloody care," Harry says, incredulous. 

"But we'd not been peachy up to that point. You confused me. I didn't know how to tell you that I couldn't see you every day anymore. And I hate goodbyes. That was my way of doing it. I guess that was my romanticised goodbye," he scoffs.

Harry quiets, shifting on the mattress slightly. "Still could of told me."

"I know."

"Carry on," Harry prompts when Louis doesn’t say anything for a while.

"Well, I guess I should also ask...um, you said that three years ago was the last time we met, and I, uh... I honestly can’t remember it, Harry. I’m really sorry that I can’t. I know it’s awful.”

Harry instantly closes up, bringing his hands higher towards his chest and folding his arms.

Louis clears his throat. “But... what happened? How did that meeting go, exactly?” he asks hesitantly, almost in a whisper.

He watches Harry’s Adam’s apple bob on a thick swallow. He’s quiet for a few moments and then, “We bumped into each other at a nightclub in London. It was quite late on in the night, well past one-ish, probably, so I was really, _very_ drunk, and um, well... you were as giddy as anything, too. Properly sloshed.” Harry looks at him with soft eyes, and he turns onto his side very slowly, facing Louis properly. “You were so surprised to see me, and I had no idea what to say. My head was spinning but I just remember feeling so... _relieved_  to see you?” Harry looks away, cheeks flushing pink like he’s been caught. Louis can’t look away. “There were so many things I wanted to tell you, but obviously we weren’t in a fit state for any kind of coherent, sensible conversation, and since you were so drunk, I think you just kind of reverted back to muscle memory? You shouted my name a lot, like you always used to when we'd go out," he grins briefly, "were bouncing up and down, jabbering away about a bunch of stuff, and then you just took my hand and we started dancing and kissing...um...” he trails off, attempting to cover his discomfort with a cough.

When Louis doesn’t immediately say anything, Harry starts to nervously play with his sleeves, cheeks still adorably flushed.

“Oh,” is all Louis can think to say, his own face heating up too.

“And, um, we had some more drinks, and it kind of—”                                                                

Harry’s face turns even redder.

“And what?” Louis prods, knowing what’s probably next.

“Well, um, it led to us... we went to the toilets, and I, uh... well, we—” Harry wipes a hand over his face. “I gave you a blow job,” he says, voice muffled into his palm like an embarrassed teenager.

Laughter is bubbling up Louis’ throat for some inexplicable reason, but fortunately he manages to stamp it down before he causes even more aggro and offends Harry further. He definitely does not want to make things worse when he has no recollection of this at all.

“Oo-kay.”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

Harry nods lamely.

So does Louis.

“Afterwards,” Harry continues after a long pause, “you were so clingy, stayed plastered to my side the rest of the night saying that you’d missed me and stuff, and I think I was just so happy to see you that I thought we could try again. Start over, you know? Well, it was a good idea in the midst of my extremely alcohol-soaked mind, that is.” He smiles wryly.

“What happened after that?” Louis’ almost too afraid to ask since that obviously didn’t end up happening. At least not on that particular night.

“Your friend gave me the address to your apartment, telling me you wanted me to come by tomorrow? Only, when I tried finding it the next day, I found out it didn’t exist.” He frowns at the memory. Louis’ confused himself. “I was so gutted. At first I thought it must have been a mistake, shook it off, but then you didn’t answer when I texted you. I started to doubt it meant anything good. I still tried convincing myself that you’d got a new number or something, that there was a simple misunderstanding, but then the anger set back in and I guess I just felt like I’d gotten my heart broken for the second time. And I'd still let it be broken by _you_.” Harry huffs out a laugh, cheeks flushing.

“Shit.” Louis swallows, face etched in a sad frown. "God, Harry."

Harry gives him a rueful smile. “I know it was mostly me jumping to conclusions and thinking the worst, and I mean, we were so drunk. And you _really_ were smashed, so it makes sense that you don’t remember what happened because of that. I'm sorry, too. That it happened. It was a stupid thing to do when we were that wasted," he frowns.

“I wish I remembered, Harry. I can't, though." Fuck, he can actually see Harry wincing at his words. “I’m so sorry."

“Don’t be,” Harry shakes his head. “Circumstances. That’s all.” It’s a brave face and Louis feels wretched. “It’s done now. Time for me to stop dwelling on it. More than time.” He smiles at Louis, small and lovely. "Don't feel bad, Lou. It’s okay. I'm okay," he laughs quietly.

Louis can only hum guiltily, staring wistfully over Harry’s shoulder and wishing he'd just remembered that night and sought Harry out the next morning when he has a thought.

“Wait, who was this friend that supposedly gave you my address?” Louis asks, brows furrowed.

“Um... I don’t think he gave me his name? He was tall, though. Uh...” he squints. “Dark hair? Kinda leery, now I think about it.” Harry frowns at the memory. “He just gave me your ‘ _address_ ’, and left in a hurry.”

Louis lets out a groan, turning onto his back. “God, I know who it was. Trust me, Harry, that guy was no friend of mine. He was an absolute nightmare, one of the stylists on our team. Really smug and really persistent with my... affections, shall we say.”

Louis remembers walking into his first day backstage at a show and being practically manhandled within fifteen minutes. It was _not_ amusing.

He slides his gaze back to Harry, whose brows are now pulled tightly together in a frown, eyes cloudy with something akin to irritation, perhaps holding a touch of jealousy? Louis wishes. “He must have given you a fake address while I was too drunk to realise what was going on. What was going on at all...” he trails off sadly.

“Lou?” Harry looks down at Louis’ hand, shaking his head minutely. “If you were a little less drunk and a bit more sober that night,” he says quietly, “would you have met with me? Would you have wanted to?”

Louis smiles, small and tentative. “Yes, Harry. Of course I would have wanted to see you.”

Harry stares at him with wide eyes, suddenly so glassy that Louis wonders if he’s about to cry. He sniffs loudly and Louis lets out a short giggle. Harry grins as he hiccups again, eyes indeed watery and so achingly green, so very lovely.

And then, with an excruciatingly gradual pace, Harry begins to inch his fingertips closer to Louis’, where they precariously rest atop the silky peach fabric of the bedspread. He nudges them until they reach the pads of Louis’ and entangles their fingers together, ever so gently, ever so delicately.

Louis’ chest feels tight, breaths quietly hitching as he tries to hold it in—this swell of affection, of fondness, of—

He wills it all down, the beating of his heart growing faster, afraid Harry can hear how hard it’s beating for _him_ , and as he grips them back, stroking, sweeping, his hand slips into Harry’s, their fingers wordlessly brushing over the other’s.

“Stay?” Louis chances.

“Do you want me to?” Harry’s voice is soft and tired.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Okay,” he whispers, already halfway to falling asleep now that he knows Louis didn’t walk away from him a second time on purpose. “But only if you’ll still be here in the morning,” he says, a tiny, drowsy smirk curving his lips, petal pink and the stuff of Louis’ dreams, to be honest.

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” Louis whispers back. “Promise.”

He watches as Harry closes his eyes, still smiling softly.

"We'll talk more tomorrow," Harry mumbles.

They fall asleep minutes later, feet entangled, curled up on top of the covers, side by side.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, but life has been getting in the way ugh sad times. Maybe this'll make up for it? :)
> 
> Also, I've only read through this once, so I'm praying there's not too many mistakes, and hopefully this isn't garbage either. As always, thank you for reading my word splurges about these lovelies! ;) xx

 

The next morning, Louis wakes feeling unusually relaxed and cosily warm. Unbelievably warm. And not in the sticky, uncomfortable way he so often experiences when he has to be up crazily early for a dewy, summer morning photoshoot either, being barked at by the stylists and the hair and makeup people because, apparently, it’s all Louis’ fault that the sky decided to bucket down with rain while Liam is clad in a Gucci jacket and Saint Laurent shoes.

No. This feeling? This warm, sated contentment Louis’ feeling right now?

It’s unsurprisingly, unreservedly… because of Harry.

The other man’s entire weight is heaped on top of Louis’ chest, his long limbs resolutely wrapped around Louis like a very cuddly (and obviously very much less slimy) octopus.

Harry’s lightly stubbled chin and his hot cheek are tucked neatly into Louis’ neck, pressed to him in pretty much every place and sending Louis slowly falling into a dramatic, endless, downward spiral of fierce nostalgia (and the entire contents of last night’s mini bar) and faded, but at the same time, wonderfully vivid memories of the two of them doing just this, every night, bodies tangled together in a human knot after too many shots and a doughy pizza between them at three in the morning.

It’s all tremendously heartening to Louis’ bruised soul and leaves him sagging into the mattress, head spinning like a record with Harry draped entirely over Louis’ smaller, lithe frame like he’s three times the size of Harry, and not, in fact, maybe only a couple of shirt sizes bigger, and a few or more inches taller than him. (Sometimes it feels like that, if he’s honest. Harry’s always tried to make himself appear smaller next to Louis. And he’s always found it incredibly endearing and cute.)

So, after a substantial amount of inner panic, and exercising some restraint over his urge to kiss Harry on the cheek, Louis freezes (not that he’s even technically moving), suddenly hyper-aware of every soft puff of breath sweeping faintly across Louis’ skin, too terrified to even breathe, let alone move even a muscle.

Because Louis doesn’t want to disturb the fragility of this, frankly, perfect moment, sunken into the soft sheets with Harry in his arms. He wants to keep this for as long as possible before it inevitably dissolves and they’re thrown back into the wedding festivities, cheapening their bond by pretending they’re nothing more than estranged exes. (Not that their performance has gone particularly well so far.) (Or that they’ve stuck to their non-existent script.)

This, though, is real. And all the silly misunderstandings and bruised history and complicated feelings have been stripped away. There’s no pretences, no walls, no inhibitions.

It’s just Louis lying in bed with Harry, and Harry lying in bed with Louis, and it’s heavenly.

Harry is heavenly.

And Louis is struggling to comprehend how the hell he even coped in Harry’s proximity so closely for so many years without spontaneously combusting at any given moment.

(Louis was a trooper.)

Yes, for now, this is what Louis wants to immerse himself in─the sweet, flowery scent of Harry’s skin, breathing in his traces until his heart is content, because he’s pathetically, entirely, stir-crazy about him.

And he might possibly be the neediest, desperately longing twat right now.

Because, _heavenly._

There’s no other word for what this feels like, closely snuggled up to Harry, Louis’ arms held securely around his soft narrow waist.

Because Louis hasn’t experienced this kind of comfortable familiarity with Harry for half a decade. God, has it been that long? Louis is torn between getting himself super depressed and melancholy over lost time, and wanting to squeeze onto Harry as tightly as possible, branding his skin with his.  

And Harry is _warm._

Deliciously warm. And soft. And plush—particularly Harry’s large, plump lips, lax and gentle, grazing over the tacky skin beneath Louis’ ear as he shifts slightly in his sleep, eyelids fluttering.

And Louis is truly about to die.

It seems Harry’s subconscious is completely over the awkward stage and is fully up for unabashed, squishy cuddles. Louis’ not banking on that staying the same way once Harry is fully awake and conscious of being plastered to Louis like superglue. He’ll probably jump right out of his skin and through the fucking ceiling when he realises they’re clinging to each other as though they’re a pair of lovesick, overbearing monkeys.

Harry will barely touch him when he’s sober, so maybe he wants to revel in this rare, delightful occurrence for a bit longer─since it’s a safe bet that there’ll be a Harry-shaped hole in the hotel room door once he notices what his body is doing without having run it by his carefully guarded mind’s permission first.

Maybe if he stays as still as possible and pretends he’s still asleep himself, Harry will wake up in his own time, convinced Louis is the one still asleep and that nothing overly familiar ended up happening while they were comatose.

Yes. That will have to suffice.

Louis closes his eyes and tries to slow the rapid beating of his heart with sheer fucking will, subtly clutching his hands around Harry’s hips a bit tighter.

But predictably (because clearly luck won’t give Louis any leeway this morning), that’s when his phone noisily begins vibrating against the bedside table.

Thankfully, Harry doesn’t even stir, and so Louis cautiously reaches his arm out to grab it, joints cracking in a few too many places, attempting to answer it as quietly as he can.

The screen reads: Liam.

“Hello?” Louis whispers.

“Hey, it’s me. Just checking you’re all right and Harry hasn’t killed you or anything,” he snorts. “So, how’s it going? I’ve not heard from you since yesterday morning, you know.” His tone is pouty. Bless Liam’s sweet soul. “You didn’t even message me to tell me you got there okay.”

“Sorry, mate. I got kinda busy with all the small talk and socialising you have to get through in this place. But, um, it’s going… fine, I guess,” he continues to whisper, Harry’s hot breath tickling under his chin, his fingers now sprawled upon Louis’ lower belly. He jerks slightly underneath them, stomach fluttering.

“Oh, good. I was half-expecting you to come home early saying you’d had a fight, or something.”

“No, it’s actually going okay with him. I think we’re really starting to get along again.” He glances down at Harry’s peacefully sleeping form.

“That’s good, too, isn’t it?”

Harry lets loose a loud snore. “Uh, yeah,” he answers distractedly, attention caught on the way Harry’s puffy pink lips are hanging open. Louis’ heart swells with gooey affection. Embarrassing.

“Why are you whispering, anyway?” Liam whispers back.

“Because he’s here.”

“Who is?”

“Harry.”

“He’s listening right now?”

“No, he’s... asleep. On me. In my room.”

There’s a beat or two of loaded silence before there’s a, “Ohhh,” that Liam draws out devilishly. “I see. Getting along, eh? Yeah, very well, it seems.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Louis hisses, clapping a hand over his mouth because that was a tad too loud and now Harry is bloody waking up. “Shit. I gotta go. I’ll call you later, okay? Bye, Li.”

He hangs up before Liam can say goodbye, wincing and making a mental note to call him as soon as Harry leaves to get dressed.

Now, though, Harry is definitely up and moving and he watches silently, skin itchy, as Harry rolls from underneath Louis’ arm and stretches the length of his lovely body down the bed, limbs pointing as far as his fingertips and toes will allow, face bedecked in pink blushes and pillow marks as he lifts his face up from where it’s been hidden in Louis’ neck.

He may be sweaty as anything right now, but Louis feels infinitely colder without the softness of Harry’s belly pressed to his, a slither of milky skin riding up with his shirt. Louis’ gaze lingers on the spot for far longer than acceptable because apparently, he’s also now a masochist. Happy days, they are not.

Harry yawns, wide and extensive, lifting his arms above him to cushion underneath his head before he’s then blinking up at Louis, a jolt of brief surprise flashing in his achingly green eyes.

Louis swallows down the next swarm of persistent butterflies in his belly. Uh oh. This is serious stuff.

“Oh.” Harry murmurs, “um, hi,” deep and rough from sleep. It caresses Louis’ insides like molasses. Louis bites on his lip, hands moving hastily to cover his nether regions in blind panic.

And of course, Harry bloody glances down at where Louis’ hands are strategically placed.

He smirks, the fucker.

Louis gifts him with an unimpressed glare.

“How are you this morning?” Harry sings, grinning through his eyelashes, eyes bright, and his cheeks dusted with a pleased rose blush. Honestly, Harry’s natural features should advertise their own makeup line.

He slides further down the bed, shirt riding up way past his belly button, his soft curves on full view for Louis to gawk at.

Louis clears his throat. “Better. Sleep well?” he says, voice croaky from disuse and… well, _affected._ Ahem. He turns over onto his stomach, willing his arousal away. It’s not working.

“I slept like a baby,” Harry informs him cheerfully.

Louis twists his head to look at him, frowning. He’s suspicious. “What’s got you so chipper?”

“Am I? Dunno.” Harry stretches again, arms slung further over the top of his chocolatey bird nest of a hairdo, then they’re reaching back to grip the headboard and Louis’ stomach does a screeching flip-flop, breath caught in his throat, indecent images of suckling at Harry’s unblemished, creamy skin flooding his mind and─

Fuck. Louis is struggling.

“Yeah,” he drawls, eyeing him closely despite wanting to look literally anywhere else. Harry is still grinning. He’s beaming, in fact, an almost golden glow about him, washing over the loose wisps of his brown hair across his forehead, spilling over the paleness of his bare arms and… legs. He took his trousers off during the night?

“Did you sleep well?” he asks Louis, and there’s a flare of mirth dancing in his emerald eyes as he says it, making Louis squirm on the bed, feet brushing the silky peach sheets as he struggles not to fidget, hands staying firmly put over his crotch area.

He doesn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes keep darting towards it. He really is an insufferable shit, and he knows exactly what he’s doing to Louis.

It’s hot, truth be told.

“Nope. Can’t sleep particularly well in hotels,” Louis half-lies, because with Harry… Louis slept wonderfully. His skin is still tingling with the sensation of Harry’s balmy warmth pressed to his, which… bad sign. God, he is so embarrassingly obsessed.

His tummy rumbles loudly then.

Harry lifts an amused brow. “Hungry? Want some breakfast? We can call up room service if you don’t want to go downstairs?”

“I’m always hungry. Hungry, horny or tired,” Louis mutters reluctantly. “Or all three at once. And right now? I’m zorny,” he yawns, the night catching up to him.

Harry turns onto his side, curls his hand in his pillow, face smushed into it as he gazes back at him, smiling almost painfully widely. Louis’ heart gives a sharp pang. “What’s ‘zorny’?” Harry asks, amused.

Louis sighs. “It’s when I’m both sleepy and aroused.”

Louis realises his mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth. He blinks up at the ceiling, calling for a most merciful god to come and steal him away somewhere amongst the clouds.

It’s quiet for a few agonising beats, and then, “Are you aroused now?” Harry boldly brushes his toes down Louis’ bare calf.

Okay, then. He’s either still drunk this morning, or last night’s chat has done a number on him. Should Louis be pleased or worried for the rest of this trip?

Louis’ heart gives another weak stutter regardless, Harry continuing to smirk at him, eyes lidded as his toes prod at Louis’ leg, sliding down to his ankles and the sole of his foot. Louis gulps a substantial portion of the sticky, stale air. He might have stopped breathing.

Air? What is that? Suddenly he has no fucking clue how to deal with the existence of oxygen.

Louis looks at Harry. Everything turns hazy as their eyes meet.

He feels the bed dip imperceptibly as they continue to look at each other, Harry a breath away from his mouth.

Louis exhales, and Harry’s lashes briefly flutter closed. “You’re shameless,” he breathes.

“You always said so,” Harry smiles, dimple deep and delicious. Louis wants to dip his tongue inside it, taste it. “Remember when you dared me to streak around the football pitch at two in the morning after you won a game?”

Louis splutters out a laugh, face hot. “Do I remember? That special image is ingrained in my retinas, pal.”

“Really?” Harry hums, brows raised and eyes twinkling with trouble. “Interesting.”

“Mm-hmm,” he agrees. “Truly fascinating.” He leans in, hand gingerly moving to clasp the back of Harry’s neck, struck with some newfound confidence, watching Harry’s eyes light up at the implication, turning lust-filled as they flick down to Louis’ lips.

And that’s when his bastard phone goes off again.

Louis groans and heaves himself upright. Harry’s smiling, watching him.

“What?” he answers with a sigh. “Li, I told you I’d call you. I’m sorry if I was rude for hanging up too quickly earlier but I─”

“No, no, I just wanted to let you know of a minor detail I’ve just come by,” Liam says, voice a bit strained. “You know, in case it might thwart some getting-Harry-back plans.”

"That's not what I'm trying to do here, Liam," Louis says, lowering his voice and aware Harry’s smile has now slipped off his face, replaced by one of focused attentiveness, watching Louis with a small frown on his pink lips, pressing them together as he listens. 

"Isn't it?"

"Liam."

“Mal's going to the stag night.” He can hear Liam’s displeased as much as Louis and he’s not even going to be attending.

“What?” Louis screeches, aggravation settling abruptly into his veins at the mere mention of that twat’s name. His creepy old man name. Which he will one day be. The twat, not Louis. “Why the fuck is _he_ going? Who could he possibly know well enough to tag along to this wedding?”

“Well, uh,” Liam chuckles awkwardly. “The bride, apparently. Beth Danvers. They’re cousins. So, um. He’s invited to the ceremony, too.”

Bloody marvellous.

“Oh, that’s just fucking great, that is. Amazing. Fantastic. Can’t wait to be bloody sexually harassed as soon as I walk through a door,” he hisses. “That’s going to be a fucking riot. Felt up under the table while I rattle on to an old lady during the DJ’s power ballad set. How amusing.” It’s then he remembers Harry is still lying beside him, a concerned furrow of his brows present on his bountiful face. Which is just immensely pleasing to Louis’ tired, bloodshot eyes.

God. He’s a mess, and Harry currently looks like a post-fucked, neon-night’s dream, shirt hanging half off his creamy shoulders. Louis wants to sink his teeth into one… Not the time, Louis.

“You okay?” Harry mouths, eyes serious and lit with disquiet. Louis wants to snog his face off until they’re both gasping for breath this instant.

“I’m sorry, mate. Just thought I’d give you a heads up.”

“No. Thanks, Liam,” Louis sighs. “You’ve cushioned the shock of seeing him stagger in on Friday. Guess I’ll just have to hire a bodyguard for the night to protect my dignity and virtue.”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about this shit, though. God, it’s like he bloody follows you everywhere. Can’t he just leave you well alone? He thinks it’s charming, but it’s just gross. It’s harassment at this point.” Liam’s voice is saturated in hostility. (When even Liam isn’t fond you of, that’s when there really is a problem.)

“Honestly, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“I can come to the stag night, if you want? Hover in the background to keep an eye out for you.”

“You’re sweet, but I’ll be fine, really.”

“Gonna hire Harry to protect you?” Liam teases.

“Shut your brooding face and go pose next to a cactus.”

Liam laughs heartily. “Okay, I’ll call you later? Or you call me? If anything happens on _that_ front, I want to know asap.”

Louis chuckles at Liam’s eagerness and investment in his and Harry’s progress. “Will do.”

He hangs up to the burn of Harry’s eyes on him. His face is glum, blank mostly with a grumpy pout curved over his puffy lips. He rubs at one of his eyes and moves a few inches on the bed─away from Louis, body language completely closed off.

Louis frowns down at him as he puts his phone back on the dresser. “Well, this is a mood change.”

“That was Liam?” Harry says, voice devoid of emotion, eyes on the bedspread.

“Yeah,” he nods. “He was letting me know this guy I sometimes work with is related to Beth, so I have to put up with his smarmy, ugly face at the wedding. So, yeah. Happy days,” he says, tone sardonic.

Harry sniffs, thumbing the hem of his shirt. “This guy sounds like he’s going to be an invasive prick.”

“Yep,” Louis says, popping the ‘p’. “And then some. Lovely man.” He rolls his eyes.

Harry still looks uncomfortable, restless. “Is Liam coming too, then? To be with you?”

“Uh, maybe. I said I’d call him later.”

Harry nods, any trace of the beam there minutes before completely gone. Now he just looks miserable, cheeks a bit pink, but more from embarrassment. And that won't do. Louis frowns. 

“Okay?”

Harry presses his lips together in a thin line. “Surely he’ll leave you alone if your boyfriend is there, yeah?”

“Are you suggesting you be my boyfriend for the night, Styles?” he smirks, trying to contain the excitement in his belly. Does he want to switch up their act now? Does Harry want them to pretend to be boyfriends instead of exes for the last couple of days? Oh, please, God. Let it be true.

“No? Liam will be there, won’t he?” Harry replies, confused. “Your actual boyfriend,” he says quietly with a petulant look.

Louis bursts into abrupt cackles.

“Why are you laughing?”

Louis slides down the bed and laughs harder, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Stop it,” Harry instructs firmly, offended, but looks as though he’s trying hard not to catch Louis’ contagious giggles.

“Liam’s not my _boyfriend_ , you numpty!”

“What?”

“He’s my client! My best mate, Jesus,” he drawls, falling back into laughter. “There’s no way me and Liam would ever… just, no.”

Harry gapes.

“But you said so in the car when you took me to the hospital! And at the restaurant? Didn’t you?” Harry pauses, brows furrowing, searching his brain. “Or am I making this up?” he says, genuinely confused. “No, I specifically remember you mentioning a boyfriend and talking about Liam.”

“Yeah, because he’s my client, and my best friend, like I just said,” Louis says slowly with a wide grin.

"Oh, thank god. Because I kept forgetting you might not be single and I felt like a prick for trying to..." Harry clears his throat. 

Louis smiles. "What?"

"Wipe that smile off your face. That car journey from the hospital was hell for me!"

“That boyfriend comment was just a throwaway joke, Harry. I was fucking with you.” He smirks.

“You shit!” Harry whacks his shoulder, shoving him back down when Louis attempts to sit back up, yelping in delight. "I felt like we were both awful these past couple of days!" He shoves him again. "I kept trying to rationalise that maybe you'd broke up with him and that's why you were flirting with me. That or you'd turned into a dickhead. I was really upset!" he laughs.

Suddenly, the laughter dies in Louis’ throat, hope bubbling to the surface. “Wait, why you were upset?”

“Um…” Harry’s eyes widen, before they settle into something more impish and surer. “I didn’t want you to have a boyfriend… obviously.” He rolls his eyes.

Louis gulps, tingling with warmth, excitement. “Why?”

Harry’s face spreads into a knowing smile. He leans forwards and stops just short of Louis’ mouth. “Take a wild guess,” he murmurs against his lips, eyes flitting from his lips to his eyes and back again.

“Hmm. Because you want me all to yourself?” he rasps, breathy and slow, caught up with a sense of untamed brashness. “Because I’m so irresistible to you?” He pauses. “Because you missed me,” he whispers.

He moves closer, impossibly closer, about to fly blind and finally slick up Harry’s lips with his own parted, when he remembers something of utmost importance.

“Shit, no,” Louis almost shrieks, keeping Harry well back with a hand against his chest─his bare, milky chest, slightly rough over his fingertips from the hair scattered there; he absently catches the cold metal of Harry’s cross pendant under the pad of his pointer finger.

“I’m sorry,” Harry immediately blurts out, flinching back like he’s been burned, sitting up, feet scrambling on the sheets.

“What? No! No, no! I meant that I haven’t brushed my teeth yet,” Louis explains frantically. “My breath is rank, Harry. It’s so bad. I can’t kiss you until that’s done.”

Harry blinks at him, wide-eyed, and then he slowly beams, releasing a loud, short cackle. “Like I fucking care,” he says, cheeks glowing with cerise and lips even pinker. Louis may or may not be salivating. It’s embarrassing. “My breath’s not exactly smelling of roses right now either.” He grins blessedly. “Idiot,” he mutters.

Louis lifts an uncertain brow.

“C’mere,” Harry says lowly, pulling Louis in by the back of his neck with both hands, thumbs resting near the corners of his mouth. Louis goes to him instantly, hurtling forward like Harry is the personification of gravity. Nah. The moon. He’s more like the moon.

The moment they come together in a soft, tentative press of their mouths, Louis is ninety-nine-point nine percent sure he’s about to croak. He’s about to greet those pearly gates and become a messenger for the angels, or gods or whatever. He’s certain. The second manifestation of Hermes is his next gig. (He’s always been into Greek mythology.)

Harry’s lips are like a pair of lush cushions, moving languidly, reverently, over Louis’ and still rendering him breathless, forcing him to give into floating away with the clouds. Yes. Harry’s about to off him with his mouth alone. (Louis’ had a good go of it on this world. Now’s not a bad time to bow out. Especially like this.)

Then in one fell swoop, Harry lunges, deepens the kiss and pulls Louis closer, slipping his tongue inside Louis’ mouth and licking along the seam of his lips, jolting Louis into action. He pushes into Harry further until their chests press together, feverishly kissing Harry back like his life depends on it. (Which it kind of does, seeing as Louis’ heart is beating so fast, he might seriously develop heart palpitations. If he hasn’t already.)

They breathe in through their noses and exhale into each other’s mouths, the taste a bit sour (a lot sour) but Louis doesn’t care. This is what he’s been craving for five long years. He’s going to take as much from this as possible and make no qualms about it.

Louis wants, and Louis is going to get.

And apparently, Harry is just as eager to collect.

Their deep, urgent kisses eventually turn into light pecks, dwindling into soft pants against chins and light nipping at jaws and… Jesus fuck, Louis’ dead.

He’s a goner. Harry did it. It’s all his fault. This gorgeous specimen of a man has killed him.

His existence offends Louis greatly and he could not be happier right now. Forget getting buzzed; this is so much more of an intensely strong high that Louis’ ever experienced in his twenty-eight years.

They unhurriedly slide back down on the sheets, side by side with their hands gripping each other’s waists, just looking, drinking in their swollen, reddened mouths, the glaze of their blown eyes.

“Silence is overrated,” Harry says, after a couple minutes of intense staring and quiet breaths, and Louis’ rapidly losing his mind to this boy all over again.

“Even when it’s comfortable silence?”

“Especially then.”

Louis arches a brow, huffing an amused breath. “Okay, then.”

Harry smiles, his beam gradually stretching over his flushed cheeks, producing those deep dimples of his. He lets his hand travel from Louis’ hip to the small of Louis’ back to his arm, stroking gently up and down, up and down, up and down.

Louis’ eyes flutter shut after a while until another kiss is pushed to his lips, Louis’ eyes opening with a dreamy flutter, staring back at Harry in awe. (Because he’s cheesy like that.)

(It’s fine. Harry is ten times cheesier.)

“Was that okay?”

“No, it was awful,” Louis smiles, hiding it in his shoulder as he rolls himself over, smothering his face in the pillow like a smitten teenager. “I remember it being a lot better than that. You need to up your game, I’m afraid. Five out of ten.”

Harry taps him on the hip, leaving his hand there. “Liar.”

They lie in silence again for another few minutes before Harry slumps onto Louis’ back, lips ghosting through Louis’ shirt and making him shiver.

“Speak.” Harry giggles, poking Louis in the back. “Use words. I want to know.”

“Know what?” Louis says, muffled into the pillow.

“Sit up, Lou.” Harry nudges him, pouty and perfect. Louis makes a grumbled noise of protest and sits up, hands in his lap. He’s still half-hard and it’s only getting worse. Either they have to do something about it, or Harry has to leave so Louis can have a vigorous wank.

Harry, though, keeps his eyes on Louis’ face, expression becoming more thoughtful, searching for something that’s making Louis self-conscious.

“We should talk.”

Harry nods. “We should.” He takes a deep inhale. “Okay, so… I’ll go first, because I have a… uh, confession of sorts.” Harry clears his throat, threading his fingers through his short fringe that’s wildly sticking up. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says wryly, “but I sort of, uh. I have a… um. Well, I…”

“For someone who likes to talk, you don’t have a lot of words up your sleeve, love,” Louis quips, eyes fond.

Harry playfully shoves his shoulder. Louis grins wider.

After a huge sigh, Harry finally blurts out, “I _like_ you. Okay?” He goes red, and it’s so completely adorable that Louis can’t help but coo at him, struck with the urge to squish his cheeks and squeeze him tight. "It's only taken me like, eight years to say it but there we go," he says as he tries to duck from Louis' hand trying to bop his nose. 

(Alright, Louis, he’s not a toddler. For Christ’s sake.)

"Aww, you had a crush on me!"

“Don’t make fun of me,” Harry whines, swatting at Louis with clumsy hands.

Louis only smiles and tries to catch them with his own.

“No, um… I’ve _always_ liked you,” Harry admits quietly and Louis’ heart skips a heavy, laboured beat.

He swallows thickly as he manages to murmur a surprised, “Always?”

“Yeah. From the first day we met and I never stopped,” Harry whispers. He moves closer, sitting back on his folded legs. “So much, Lou. Like, right from the off, I was obsessed with you, really. I constantly wanted to be near you and I worried about being overbearing but you never seemed to mind. When you found me on your own sometimes, would seek me out yourself, it made me so ridiculously happy,” he snorts and Louis listens with a soft smile, belly going wild. “And as time went on, I thought about us turning into something more, but… I don’t know,” he smiles, wry and timid. “It just never really happened, did it? Until, you know, that last night. Which was probably the best of my life." He flushes impossibly further and Louis can’t stop smiling. He takes Harry’s hands in his, kneading at the pads of Harry's squishy fingers.

“You are too precious, you know that? The cutest,” he beams, “and I like you, too.” 

Harry tries to pout with no avail. “Yeah?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “No, I can’t stand you! You’re a pain in my arse. Which you just might be, if you play your cards right.” He winks ridiculously and Harry releases an onslaught of giggles, hiding his face in Louis’ chest. This side of Harry has been one he’s missed so fucking much, his chest aches with it.

When Harry slowly pulls back, his face softens into something more mellow, serious. “Louis..." A couple of beats pass. You really hurt me when you left like that,” he says mildly, like he’s afraid to break this easy, newly found comfort between them, so long in the making since they fell back into each other's lives. “It was like, I fell asleep with my best friend beside me, and then I woke up to find you just…gone.”

And bam. Louis’ dragged right back down to earth, guilt surging tightly within the ropes of his chest.

“Fuck. Why I didn't think of that is beyond me, and I’m so, so sorry for that, Harry.”

“I know you are,” Harry says softly.

“I left like a scared kid, instead of telling _you_ , someone I still considered to be my _best_ friend, about something potentially important for myself. It wasn’t easy to do that, though. Okay? It was terrible, Harry. Every step I took down the road that night, I thought I was gonna throw up. But I’d convinced myself you and I were a one-off. Like the handful of times we’d kissed. It was never discussed afterwards, was it?” Harry averts his gaze; his face appears guilty. “We both acted like it never happened. It was always just this unspoken flirtation between us, wasn’t it?” he implores. “A bit of banter? Because it wasn’t a thing. It didn’t mean anything. Not really. Not properly. And, I don’t know, I really thought that night was the same thing.”

Harry meets his eyes, then lowers his gaze, hands clenched in his lap.

“Of course I thought about asking you to come with me, Harry. But it just wasn't an option as far as I was concerned. You never talked about your plans after uni, but then we hadn’t hung out in so long either. We’d drifted and I thought you’d got bored of me, so… when we slept together, it was a _big_ surprise. I couldn’t quite believe it had happened. Didn’t you think it was mad, too? At the time?"

Harry gets this strange look on his face, biting his lip hard, cheeks starting to flush. 

“To me, it was my way of saying goodbye.”

Harry closes his eyes at that, but Louis carries on. He may as well put everything on the table now that the can’s been well and truly opened. “I didn’t think you’d remember it anyway, let alone miss me that much. You say you always liked me, yeah? But, Harry... we were barely speaking those last few months. So something had changed. You weren’t answering my calls or my texts. You’d make up excuses, tell me you were busy when I’d ask you out places. The sleeping arrangement we had just stopped. We’d changed,” he says sadly.

Harry’s looking at him now, mouth downturned and appearing to be going through a range of emotions, shaking his head at Louis, himself. “God,” he whispers, passing a hand over his face as looks down. “No, that… that wasn’t it.”

“You wouldn’t have missed me.”

Harry snaps his head up, staring with wide, green eyes. “Louis, that’s ridiculous,” he says, his face morphing into near outrage, brows pulled forcefully together, firm. Louis’ a tad scared. He won’t lie. “You didn’t think I’d _miss you_? Fuck, Louis, I missed you more than _anything_. I hated those last few months of uni, and you know what was so stupid? It was _my_ fault. _I_ pulled away because I’d realised… I didn’t know what to do to fix it because I─” he stops abruptly, eyes downcast. 

“What?” Louis frowns, heart in his mouth because what was he about to say? Realise what? That they were incompatible? That it would never work? What?

Harry quiets. “I did.”

“Did what?” Louis breathes after a beat.

Harry shifts on the bed, curling his bent legs towards his chest. He loosely wraps his arms around the backs of his knees. “I didn't move to London just for work. It was because... I may have had the intention of running into you at some point. Or at least hoped to."

Louis' mouth falls agape. Everything suddenly feels too warm. "Harry," he breathes.

Harry's face reddens significantly further when Louis reaches out to touch his hand, wrapped around his knees.

"I really didn't think you'd care that much, which I know, is fucking ridiculous. If anything, I should have dropped by to yours whenever I went home. I mean, you were like a fifteen minute drive away." Louis feels more shame and regret creep up his neck, his heart racing a little too quickly. "The more time I let go by, the harder it was to get back in touch."

Harry nods. "I guess, I thought when I found you, it would be different. That we'd be picking up where we left off, or... something. I was still so hurt about how we'd left things, but I was willing to just leave that for a bit because I... well. I thought it’d be like all the romantic comedies I’ve binged in my lifetime,” he says quietly, bashfully. “And then that night at the club happened, and I couldn’t believe I’d actually gotten to see you again, just like I’d imagined for months in my head. It was perfect. Well, as close as for us anyway,” he smiles weakly. “I had a whole speech planned for the next day about how much I’d missed you, and that I would have come to London with you─if you’d have just told me where you were going beforehand.” He rolls his eyes but there’s no real anger this time; it’s more fond exasperation. 

And Louis almost laughs but. Harry was _waiting_ for Louis? Harry wanted to _find_ Louis.

This is big. This is a lot.

“Hang on, what?” he says, mouth ajar and heart thudding hard behind his ribs. “You really─what?”

Harry barrels on. “But then I went back to hating you because I thought you’d purposely got your friend to get rid of me and I just couldn’t handle another rejection. Me and you. It just never went anywhere and I was tired of it. I mean, how many more times was I going to embarrass myself?”

“Oh, Harry, that was Mal! I’m so sorry about him. God, if I’d have known you’d have come with me, if I had any inkling that that’s what you would have wanted-- But you stopped talking to me, Harry. I didn't think you wanted me anymore.”

“Shit, I know,” Harry says, face twisted in distress, regret. "And that's my fault, I know it is."

“I thought I’d done something to you, or that you’d got sick of me being around, that you’d got bored of me."

“No, never! You were my best friend, Lou. How could I have ever gotten bored of you?"

"So, why then? Why'd you... forget me?"

Harry's face crumples. "Oh, fuck. I don't... I just… I liked you so _much_ , but I didn’t think you felt the same. That's really all it was," he says sadly. "I thought what I felt was unrequited because you never really... you didn't reciprocate it in a way I'd think I had a chance. And I couldn't just be your friend, Lou."

“That’s why you pulled away from me?” Everything’s starting to fall into place, filling in the blanks and forming whole pieces. The detachment and the slow phasing out that Harry attempted. And in some ways, it feels worse.

“Yeah,” Harry admits, small and rueful. “I didn’t know how to act around you anymore. I was so uncomfortable when I… realised I felt like that, but when we finally slept together, I was on cloud nine. I was… fuck, I going to ask you to... well, I wanted to discuss my feelings in the morning, to like, lay it all on the line for you, to explain why I'd been so distant, and you fucking did a runner before I got the chance,” he huffs out a brief laugh, shaking his head. There’s still no heat behind Harry’s words now, his tone is more than patient, but Louis feels like a piece of shit. "I mean, I did leave it so long. I wasn't exactly sending out clear signals."

Louis groans, hands flying into his hair as he tugs at it, frustrated. “What a fucking waste of time,” he laments, falling backwards with a bounce. "What a stupid mess."

“I waited for you to come back that whole morning."

That's... Shit. Louis is going to cry. “Fuck, Harry,” he croaks, eyes welling up. “If I'd known. I’m sorry. I'm a fucking idiot.”

“No, you're not. It's okay.” Harry smiles softly, his own eyes glassy. "I’m sorry, I'm not trying to make you feel worse, I just think we need to put all this out there, you know? I just need to you to know that I would have gone anywhere with you in a second, and I’m sorry that I made you doubt that."

Louis scoffs, miserable. “Keep beating me down while you’re at it.”

“No, Lou. It was my fault for not telling you how I felt sooner. This is my fault in the first place. For pushing you away. I was the one who made you give up trying to call me. I was the one who stayed out late so you'd be asleep by the time I got home. How were you supposed to know I’d have said yes?”

“I could have tried harder, too. Confronted you, or something. I just let it happen. I let us drift apart. I was too scared of what you might say if I did," he admits. Louis' not sure what he thought Harry's reasons would have been. Anything would have broken his heart.

Harry shrugs. “Doesn’t matter anymore. As far as you knew, I’d moved on, as much as that must have confused you.” Yeah. Louis was dumbfounded, to put it lightly. It was like they became strangers overnight. It all changed the day after some ridiculous Valentines party someone in their halls hosted. Harry was being off with him all night, skittish and awkward, and then it started. The pulling away. They spoke less and less until they just didn’t anymore. Louis had no idea what he’d done wrong. “But anyway, it’s done with now,” Harry says, fingers finding Louis’ and idly playing with them. “We’re back here again now, right?”

“And where’s that?” Louis quirks an eyebrow, absently stroking Harry’s clammy fingers with his own.

“Together,” he says simply.

“You’re such a soppy git.”

“I know,” Harry laughs. “And you love me like this. Don’t deny it─”

Louis grabs his face, startling Harry who lets loose a muffled sound as his back hits the bed.

Harry reacts quickly, his hands gently holding onto Louis’ wrists, and Louis kisses him, long and deep until Harry is sighing sweetly into his mouth, Harry’s legs wrapped around Louis’ waist as the two of them melt into the mattress.

“I do love it,” he murmurs when he finishes a particularly wet kiss on Harry’s neck, nipping at the skin again when Harry gasps, mind growing foggy from the way his fingers grip and thread through Louis’ hair.

"Good." Harry tilts his head to look at him with hazy eyes and Louis clutches him closer, eyes lidded and warm. “Let’s never stay away that long again. It was so fucking stupid. We’re just not meant to be kept apart. We’re not built that way. Bad things happen when we're not together, Lou. We owe it to the universe,” he grins.

Louis gazes at him, heart swelling to twice its size. “Cross my heart that we’re stuck together, Harold.”

“Gonna stick like glue. Baby, ‘cause I’m stuck on you,” Harry whisper-sings around a smile, mouth damp and claiming Louis’ once more.

Louis doesn’t know if that’s true, but he’s willing to let it be true for now.

**

For the rest of the day, Louis agrees to keep a reasonable distance from Harry’s family to gather up some gossip about the night before, sitting at the opposite end of the room at breakfast, lunch and dinner, only shooting Harry the odd glare or uncomfortable glance, which Harry returns equally as aloof. Or tries to. It’s a bit hard not to drool with his mouth open when Louis is over there looking like he should have a Harry on top of him.

Harry may be feeling extra horny after consuming a few cocktails, but who can blame him when Louis looks like he does.

Now that he’s had a taste of Louis again, he can’t quite find it in himself to think about anything else.

He’s spent the better part of an hour trying to give off some semblance of normality after letting Louis suck a huge love bite on his neck for twenty minutes in the toilets-while he palmed Louis through his jeans (and has been doing his best to cover the almighty purple bruise with his neck scarf).

(One he was not wearing when he arrived but found on the back of a nice lady’s chair.) (Not that he asked her permission, but well, who’d question Harry wearing this anyway?) (If he gets caught, he’ll blame the drink.)

Nothing gets past Harry’s mum, though. She’s been eyeing him closely all day with a pinched expression and beady eyes, and Harry can tell she’s been dying to ask Louis over to their table at every meal. Which she almost did at lunch, but a stern, fake word of panicked distress from Harry put a stop to that, and thankfully she’s not asked again.

(The woman has Spidey senses.)

Meanwhile, Harry has been itching to touch him. It’s been the longest day Harry can remember having in a while─Louis being so close and even though he’s allowed to touch now, he still isn’t able to.

But technically, Harry created this mess so he has to lie in it. (The _mess_ , preferably being Louis, but we’ll see.)

It’s almost ten and most people have moved to the bar, more people having arrived as it gets closer to the weekend, a bunch due to turn up tomorrow evening in time for Saturday's stag night.

Louis glances his way, still looking a bit debauched. A real James Dean and Harry can’t resist another text.

_You look wrecked_

**_Exactly. I look amazing_ **

_I very much disagree with that statement_

**_Oh, you flirt, Harold_** is his reply, along with an unimpressed emoji.

The old nickname still makes Harry want to grin so hard that he dimples and blushes like a fool. He lets the pads of his fingers run wild.

_You look fucking stunning and I want to get off on your glorious thigh like a horny teenager right now_

_Too much?_

Louis looks up, mouth agape.

Harry retrains from snorting, dying to be granted permission to smile, but then grins anyway as he lowers his head, frantically sending the aubergine and peach emojis three times.

Because clearly, he’s reverted to a sixteen-year-old boy.

Once Louis has unsubtly adjusted himself, he winks at him from his spot at the bar, and smirks into his drink as he keeps his gaze firmly on Harry, sending him weak in the knees, despite already sitting down. Though his legs feel like actual jelly, like the bones have been sucked out of them with a hoover.

He’s so desperate right now. He’s as loose a damn noodle, and Harry’s chest may also have made a pitter patter sound. Yeah. Really. He may also have red cartoon hearts for eyes. He’s that crazily and embarrassingly gone.

See, Harry has been texting Louis from across the bar for the last half an hour, a stupid smile stuck to his numb features that doesn’t seem to be dwindling any time soon─the second he feels a pair of eyes on him, though, Harry drops his smile and morphs it into one of miserable woe, getting back to batting his eyelids and sneaking glances Louis’ way as to display his heartbreak and discomfort over Louis’ presence. Thankfully, most people have left Harry alone to his own devices. He’s pretty sure their performance has everyone convinced they had a heated row in the bathroom last night. Maybe he’s better at this than he thought.

A sarcastic comment from another of Louis’ texts breaks his game face yet again, causing Harry to release a loud snigger. It makes a couple of people nearby eye him weirdly, but it’s probably for the best─seeing as it stops him daydreaming about what might have happened had someone not knocked earlier on Harry’s door, forcing Louis to hide out under the bed.

He’s also certain that the person who walked into the bathroom is sat at the next table with his cousins, being nosy and reporting back rumours of what they overheard. Which is likely greatly over-exaggerated. If they heard anything at all.

Still, it gives their fake exes play momentum, even if he barely cares about the reason he’s doing this anymore...

His gaze reconnects with Louis’, when he feels his mother’s own slide to his, sensing Louis disappear while he stares down at his phone, waiting for a smartass message or a cue to get out of here.

Instead, a few minutes later, a small goody bag housing a piece of Red Velvet cake is slipped in front of him, the flash of delicate fingers he knows so well leaving as quickly as they appeared.

Harry whips his head around to see Louis hovering with a private smile and a wink, his mother apparently having gone elsewhere. “Louis, what are you—”

“It’s your favourite, isn’t it? Or it used to be.” Louis smirks, a glint in his eye that has Harry wanting to drag him back to the bathroom, but he’s already walking away and over to a group of guys Harry isn’t even sure he knows the names of. He’s keeping a close eye on one in particular; he’s far too touchy-feely for Harry’s taste. Harry’s never quite liked sharing. “You spent many a night getting stoned and eating this specific cake in my lap after. Don’t pretend you forgot,” he says, voice silly and fond. “You were a right little weirdo,” he grins. “Who gets a craving for cream-cheese after smoking weed?”

Harry preens. “I made you go out to Sainsburys to buy me some Red Velvet cupcakes just before midnight once,” he remembers, “but they didn’t have the right ones so you brought me back a tub of ready-made cream-cheese frosting instead.” He giggles, half aware Beth and Matt are hovering in the background on his side of the bar. He tries to tamper down his giddy mood.

“You’re looking far too starry-eyed right now, Styles,” Louis says, huskier and fuck, Harry wants him. Five years is far too long a wait to go a second round. He’s almost dying of blue balls at this point, gnawing on his lips. “Better look like you’re gonna slap me instead. Prying eyes are starting to wander.”

“Okay,” Harry replies dumbly, still staring at him for a long, heady moment before looking down at the piece of cake sitting in front of him, and tries to shoo away the grin that’s spreading over his face, giving him away. (The state of his crotch area needs hiding, too.)

“What are you smiling about?” his mum asks as she suddenly sits down next to him with a glass of wine in her hand, making Harry jolt. “What you got there?

“Hmm?” Harry glances up, biting at his lip, forcibly keeping his eyes from wandering anywhere near to where Louis is standing—directly in Harry’s eye line. Bastard. “Nothing,” he replies innocently, plopping the bag between his knees.

He ignores his mum’s questioning stare and equally as annoying rambling about love and shit, and pops a piece of cake into his mouth, (she’s long gone, sloshed as anything, so she won’t register a thing) thinking about his nineteenth birthday─Louis attempted to make a Red Velvet birthday cake himself, and ended up making such a mess of it that he took Harry to the bakery in the evening instead, after hours of unsuccessful batches, (to be fair, it’s really hard to get the frosting right without it tasting purely of cheese) and bribed his friend’s sister, who was cleaning up before close, if they could buy some last-minute cupcakes.

She relented only because it was Harry’s birthday and it was then, as they stuffed their faces with cake, and giggled over Louis invading the kitchen and almost burning the place down with candles he found, that Harry knew: he was never letting this boy go.

And now, as they swap stares from across the room, like the middle part of a romantic comedy Harry loves, he’s knows he hasn’t felt this good in ages.

And he also knows, despite everything, that epiphany he had on his nineteenth birthday isn’t any less true.

**

Other than Harry’s gorgeous self being in his eyeline all night─and some much-needed progress on their relationship having been made─Louis is not in the best of moods.

See, the bride has been giving Louis strange looks the whole time, her tone particularly colder than usual towards him. In fact, Beth has never been rude to him since he’s known her; he’s at a loss as to what’s he’s even done.

The last straw comes when she pulls Harry away from where he was clearly about to stroll towards Louis (and pretend to give him a glare) and he’s had enough of not knowing if she’s bought into the pretend fight they made up last night, or if it’s something else. And judging by the sly comment she made when people were joking about dating people from work earlier on at dinner, he’s thinking the latter.

Louis was completely stumped when as Beth and Matt told the story of their clichéd office romance (even though they dated before that at uni anyway), she pointedly looked at Louis when explaining explicitly that it’s only okay if both people are single and willing and strong enough to withstand the obvious pitfalls of dating someone you work with.

Even Harry looked a bit taken aback from his table, which was a lot nearer than they’d planned to be (the next table, in fact, but back to back).

Beth is passing his spot at the bar now, and he lightly taps her arm before she can walk right past him.

“Beth,” he says gently, “can I have a word, please?” he asks, gesturing for her to follow him towards the exit. He can see she’s struggling not to soften her hardened expression (which, come on, what the hell is he supposed to have done?), but follows him anyway. He feels Harry’s eyes linger on his back as he guides her out of the bar, glancing over his shoulder to see Harry with a deep frown on his face, mouthing a silent question of, “are you alright?”

He wants to say, _if she stabs me from behind, remember me fondly,_ because geez, this girl can _glare._

“Um, I’m not sure what I’ve done but─”

“You know Malcolm is coming to the wedding, right? He’s my cousin, and I know you _worked_ with him.” She says _worked_ like it’s significant. It immediately rubs Louis the wrong way.

Louis hums a sound of acknowledgement through gritted teeth. “What exactly did Malcolm tell you about us?” he says when they get past the doors and away from everyone, putting on his most casual smile. “It’s just, I don’t want him spreading…” (bullshit), “…not entirely accurate information around, you know?” He knows he’s grimacing, and Beth’s staring at him intently, eyes flicking between himself and Harry, who’s now moved closer to the exit than he needs to be, pretending to be preoccupied with his phone.

She’s silent a few moments before she presses her lips together and then apart. “He said you guys slept together in London a few years ago.”

Louis restrains himself from outright gaping. That lying fucking snake. He could yell bloody murder right now, thinking about who else he’s gone and lied to around their circles at home.

“So if I seemed slightly standoffish at the table earlier,” she says, folding her arms. “Well, I was worried about Harry.”

“Worried?”

“Yeah,” Beth nods resolutely. “I see how he looks at you, Louis, and to me it’s clearly not estranged. I mean, come on. He’s practically got stars shining in his eyes whenever you walk into a room. You think I buy something bad happening between you in the bathroom last night? I don’t. Harry wears his heart on his sleeve. Or at least, he used to. But then you’d know that.”

Right.

“Okay, but,” Louis laughs humourlessly, “I’m struggling to understand how me and Harry is clearly a bad thing to you?”

“Well, you technically cheated on him with Malcolm, didn’t you?”

_What?_

“You both said it was the distance, that you were drifting apart, but Louis, if you’re unhappy in a relationship, you still have to break up with someone before sleeping with someone else. Even if you think it's over. It’s just the decent thing to do.” Her tone isn’t mean per se, it almost sounds like she’s trying to keep the peace, give him advice or something, but Louis sees red. Not only has he been accused of sleeping with someone he absolutely has _not_ , but he’s also being accused of cheating on Harry?

Fuck. Right. Off. That would never fucking happen and he could turn into the Hulk right now. He’s _so angry._

“Are you actually serious? Who’s been saying this offensive bullshit?”

Beth blinks. “That’s what Malcolm told me,” she shrugs, before her eyes turn more apologetic.

“I would never in a million years do that to Harry,” he says, tone icily serious.

Beth sighs, pushing her hair back and darting her gaze behind herself. “Look, whatever happened or didn’t happen, I know it’s none of my business.” She takes a tentative step forward. “But if you’re planning on going straight back to London after the wedding, either take Harry with you and make it work, or leave him alone, Louis. You don’t know what a mess you made him into when you left.”

Louis scoffs, unable to believe what he’s hearing. “Excuse me? I didn’t realise you and Harry were so close.” They knew of each other at uni through Matty of course, since they dated throughout their time there, but Harry and Louis were obviously closer to Matt.

“How would you know if we were? You haven’t been around for years.” Again, her tone isn’t mean, more matter-of-fact.

Because it’s the truth, isn’t it? Louis knows nothing about what Harry has done and who he’s friends with now.

And it stings like hell.

“Touché,” he mutters. He ends up crossing his own arms, feeling defensive and like he’s about to bust a vein in his head at any moment.

Beth smiles a little, tilting her head. “I like you, Louis. I do. You’re a good guy, and I know how Malcolm can be, but─”

“He’s family,” Louis finishes for her with a mild glare.

“I don’t know what’s been going on here between you two, but just don’t make a scene at my wedding, eh?”

“Who are you referring to? Me and Malcolm, or me and Harry?”

 _Malcolm_. _It’s such a shit name,_ he thinks petulantly. _Sounds like an old weirdo who hangs around a park_. There. Now he can cross off his regular juvenile thought of the day. He’ll tell him that when he inevitably sees him again.

Beth smiles ruefully, patting him on the shoulder as she turns to leave. “Maybe talk to Harry,” she suggests, “before Malcolm gets to him first. Whether it’s true or not, Harry might not know which.”

He would. Harry would know Louis would never do that to him. Whether they were real in their story or not. That much he knows.

But still, Louis feels a cold sweat coming on, both maddened and terrified. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s just where you’re concerned, doesn’t he get his heart broken every time?”

Another painful sting. He reckons there must be a scorpion camping out behind his ribcage.

“Let’s hope it’s not a third time. Anne would be crushed,” she says knowingly, and Louis wants to know just who she’s been speaking to. “Come find me if you want to talk more, okay?”

Beth smiles one more time, genuinely, petite and stunning as the lights shine on her evening-shaded dress, and Louis can’t be mad at her, not really. Not when she’s only looking out for Harry like everyone else in her family, or soon-to-be-family, is.

“Beth.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to hurt Harry.”

She gives him a meaningful stare, turns to go back inside to her party, and something clicks in Louis. Something big.

Louis stands, staring at the floor and pointedly not looking over at Harry, whose eyes he can feel on his face acutely, making him feel itchy all over, for a variety of reasons.

But he knows he's not going to mess this up.

**

Harry and Louis are in a secluded corner of the gardens, the trimmed hedges and countless species of luscious plants surrounding them amongst a tangle of golden fairy lights, and to say Harry is feeling good is an understatement.

Harry is currently holding onto Louis’ hand as they sit on a lovely carved bench, their fingers intertwined and thumbs absently brushing over the backs of their hands, nerves and butterflies alike having a riot of a time around his innards. Louis’ thumb keeps darting close towards Harry’s pulse point at his wrist, rubbing tiny, faint circles absently at the base of his palm.

And it feels electric. He can’t stop biting on his punch-drunk smile, excitement for the possibilities buzzing through his veins.

It’s only slightly dampened when someone walks out of the hotel and shoots them a look that Harry isn’t keen on, having noticed people’s awkwardness around Louis all day since he returned to the table last night, pretending to be very upset and claiming Louis had to go suddenly, thus creating an excuse for indiscreet murmurings from his family, hoping that they’d think the pair had an argument or hostile words of some sort in the bathroom.

Well. That’s what they were going for, anyway.

But since Beth’s wary reaction towards Louis, Harry’s having second thoughts about this whole charade. What’s the point, really? Harry isn’t really as bothered anymore by people’s questions now that him and Louis seem to be the hot topic instead. He doesn't feel as awkward as he would have without Louis here to focus his nervous energy on.

What’s another lie? Say… that they’re now back together? Harry could act as affectionate with Louis as he wants and not have to pretend at all. 

It’s also setting up Harry’s heart for a risk, but Harry’s willing to take it.

He just doesn’t even know if Louis would be up for continuing this─whatever it is─past the wedding, let alone start a relationship.

And it’s only been like... a day.

He should really calm down. Jesus.

Then again, Louis doesn’t know Harry was (is) head over heels in love with him yet. So there’s that to deal with.

Harry might need another glass of chardonnay at this rate if Louis carries on sitting in stoic silence. Something’s going on, and from the looks Beth’s been shooting them, it’s not good. Maybe that's all the more reason he needs to come clean to everyone. This is getting out of hand already, and it's still only the second day. There's three days left, and honestly Harry is done waiting.

Louis' here, and he'd be stupid to carry on keeping his feelings under wraps. He's done that before, and look how that turned out.

He leans his chin on Louis’ shoulder and nuzzles into his cheek, prodding him with his nose until Louis cracks a small smile. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” Louis murmurs back. "What are you? A kitten?"

"How did you guess?"

Louis smiles softly.

“So, how are you? You good?” Harry chirps, attempting to diffuse the obvious tension. He puts his other hand on the inside of Louis’ thigh when Louis breathes out a laugh. Harry’s insides fizz at the sound. “Thank you for the cake. I didn’t get to say.”

Louis twists his head to look down at him properly. "You're welcome. And I’m good, babe. How are you?” he replies, amused.

Harry smiles into his shoulder, goofy and feeling like an excited kid. He doesn’t know why he's feeling so excitable. Or maybe he does… Yeah. He definitely does, what with Louis’ eyes a hypnotic shade of blue in the dim glow of the garden’s lights, his fringe swept to the side of his face, his lips soft and slightly parted. Harry wants to dampen them with his.

But then as if on cue, the patio doors burst open, and Louis jumps back faster than Harry blinks. He tries not to focus on the unpleasant drop in his stomach when Beth appears hand in hand with Matt, giving the two of them a meaningful glance, his mum following right after them.

“Harry, there you are!” His tipsy mum calls.

He turns to Louis, only to find him already slipping past the bench to get to the side entrance. Louis smiles at Harry as he goes, only slightly softening the heavy sinking feeling in his belly.

**

Later on in the night, Harry manages to sneak away from the increasing merriness of his family and taps at Louis’ room.

“Hi,” Harry grins dopily, making a beeline for Louis and pulling him to his chest by the shoulders, wrapping his arms around him and immediately begins to kiss down his neck. Louis lolls his head back, eyes flickering shut and Harry gives himself a mental fist bump, sucking more enthusiastically at his skin and working on leaving a massive bruise to admire later.

How the hell did he ever manage without this? How did he ever go about his day, living and breathing with not ever touching Louis?

Madness. Unbelievable.

(Maybe he made up for that with all the thinking about him constantly.)

“Did your mum see you sneak off?” Louis asks then, his voice is a bit breathless, hitching in the middle. Harry thinks it’s his favourite sound in the world.

“I’d rather not talk about my mum right now, if that’s alright with you,” Harry quips lowly, pushing him down onto the bed, and holding Louis’ hips firmly in place as he kisses Louis’ neck some more, before moving to blindly unfasten Louis’ jeans.

“Noted,” Louis moans as Harry nudges Louis to lift his hips off the mattress, shimmying his jeans down his lovely shaped thighs. (Okay, that high moan is Harry’s favourite sound in the world.)

Harry has the sudden to urge to bite into them, thick, and fleshy and unblemished; so he does. Louis gasps and Harry smiles into the flesh of his inner thigh, sucking harder, letting his teeth scrape against skin.

“Jesus,” Louis hisses, “okay, but… what about Beth? Did she say anything to you?” Harry can hear the nonchalance that Louis is going for but it’s not quite convincing. He reluctantly pulls away from his comfy spot between Louis’ legs and meets his gaze, half-watching the laboured rise and fall of Louis’ chest as he releases short little pants. It’s mesmerising.

“What _were_ you talking about earlier? She was watching us weirdly all night, and I don’t believe it was just about the bathroom argument.”

“She, uh… she was just looking out for you, I guess.”

Louis fidgets in his spot, a bit squirmy as he moves on the bed, bending his legs and then realising he can’t quite manage that with his jeans bunched at his knees.

“Okay,” Harry frowns. “For what?”

“From me.” His tone is bland.

Harry rolls his eyes. “So, they’ve all gone into protective mode, have they?”

Louis shrugs, bringing his hands up to rest on his stomach. His pretty golden stomach that he’d very much like a look at again.

“You should wear another crop top,” Harry blurts out, rubbing a hand slowly over his belly.

Louis smirks, but barely. “She thinks I was unfaithful to you and that’s the reason we really ‘broke up’,” he says, fingers poised in quotation marks.

“What?” Harry splutters, incredulous. “Why would she think that?”

Louis gives him an apprehensive look. Harry’s belly drops, and not in the good way.

“Mal told her I slept with him while she thinks we were together,” he says, tone agitated. “As if I’d touch that dude with a bargepole. Lying bastard.”

“Well, I hope you put her straight,” Harry scoffs. “Like you’d ever do that, even if we weren’t really dating. You’d never cheat on me.”

Louis looks up at that, a small smile curving his reddened lips and a gorgeously earnest look in his eyes. Harry swallows thickly, slightly overwhelmed.

“Never,” Louis agrees resolutely, mouth downturned.

“What’s the matter?”

"I didn't outright deny I'd slept with Mal or ever done anything with him. I just said it was offensive and that I'd never do that to you. She's probably already told Matty now."

“Louis,” Harry urges. “I am not having my entire family think you cheated on me.”

“But what does it matter? We’re not really together─we were never really together, and besides, they were starting to like me too much, right? You said yourself, your mum’s falling in love with me. You know how obsessed they all are with matchmaking. If they think we just need a push to talk to each other, they’ll be spending the next couple of days trying to get us back together, thinking they’re helping us.”

Harry doesn’t say he thinks that wouldn’t be a bad thing. It might be a little too soon to be thinking so far ahead, but Harry is already dreading Louis taking off and going back to London once the wedding is over. What then? He goes back to never seeing Louis?

He wants Louis to stay. He wants his family to love him.

“Yeah, but _cheating_ , Louis. You’d never be that person, and now they’re all gonna think you are. They’ll hate you for it.” Suddenly Harry feels desperate. It feels wrong. There’s no way he’s having people think this kind of thing about Louis. It’s not happening.

“I don’t care. It’s not real.” He looks away.

How can he not care? Harry is incensed that Beth believed it even for a second.

“Well, I _do_ care.”

Louis blinks. Even Harry is a little taken aback by his own impassioned tone.

“It really doesn’t matter, Harry. I’m not even going to be seeing these people again in three days, am I?” he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

But it does matter. He knows why it matters, but… maybe this _is_ moving too fast? On Harry’s end, at least. Louis’ only been back in his life for a couple of weeks, after so long. Can he really expect Louis to want to talk seriously about them? Louis has no idea that Harry’s… well, you know… crazily, stupidly, terribly in love with him. He should do something about that.

Screw the timing. He’s waited long enough, thanks, and Louis’ more than willing to do this with him…

But.

“Did she actually believe Malcolm?” he asks instead. Because he’s an idiot, and he wants to be more careful with his heart this time. Heartbreak Number Three is not happening, alright?

“I’m not sure... But he’s her cousin.”

“So? He sounds like a fucking dick from what you’ve told me.”

“He’s her family though, and he’ll be coming to the stag night.”

Harry groans, collapsing onto Louis’ chest. “Fabulous.”

“Hey. Let’s not talk about this right now, yeah?” Louis says, voice husky and his eyes a blue gaze of lust and wonder. Harry bites on his lip. “We could easily be doing something more worthwhile with our time instead, hm?” He wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously.

Louis undoes Harry’s shirt, exposing the expanse of Harry’s milky chest, and presses kiss after kiss across his collarbones, making his way to his neck, sucking a hefty bruise in the juncture between his shoulder and jaw and finally lands on his lips.

Harry moans softly into the kiss, eager to touch and taste any part of Louis he can reach, wanting this to last for as long as he can make it so, determined hands falling into his hair and scrunching the soft caramel strands in his palms.

They swap breathless, giddy smiles and soft, needy sounds, and Louis kisses him eagerly into the mattress with Harry’s wrists pinned above his head, until their lips are chapped and dry and their jaws are aching, and eventually Harry falls asleep nestled in Louis’ arms, one thought caught in a loop within the hazy confines of his mind as he drifts off: he just might get to keep him this time.


	7. Seven

 

It’s Friday. Day three.

And Harry’s feeling quietly optimistic that this ridiculous plan to pass off Louis as a former boyfriend (a far more sufficient label than his 'once best friend and love of his life whom he slept with and never saw again until years later') to avoid having his personal failures and lack of a significant other mocked and judged is becoming closer to the truth than he ever imagined. (The _boyfriend_ part, that is.) (In no way is Harry ever planning on letting Louis become a ‘former’ anything ever again.)

It’s been no more than a few weeks that Louis' been back in Harry’s life, and already they’re slipping easily back into old habits from previously having shared a living space and a bed for a solid couple of years.

Louis remembers (begrudgingly) that Harry likes the window ajar (they settle on switching the air-con on as a trade), and Harry knows Louis likes to cuddle from behind. Harry sleeps on the left side and Louis prefers the right and as few pillows as possible, giving them to Harry because of his sore neck.

And every one of these occurrences has butterflies swarming inside his stomach with mad hope.

What’s Harry doing? He has no idea. He just knows this feels right, comfortable, like wearing your favourite sweatshirt tangled with the acute buzz of a live wire running through your blood.

It’s as familiar as breathingꟷbeing here with Louis and just existing.

He’s elated when Louis tucks his cold toes between Harry’s calves, just like he always did, taking up his long-standing spot as the big spoon from their uni days, when they’d come home half-cut and giggling and fall into Louis’ single bed, and Harry fits himself easily into Louis’ chest like muscle memory, gripping Louis’ hands that rest flat atop Harry’s stomach.

Harry wakes up much earlier than him, having snored like a gorilla all nightꟷas Louis is keen to inform him as soon as he opens his eyesꟷand everything feels just as it should.

The morning is showered with shy smiles and hesitant hands that look for any excuse to lightly brush the nearest part of each other, adrenaline bubbling under Harry’s hyper-aware senses.

They wake up during the early hours, talking about nothing at all until they fall back to sleep, and by the time sunrise breaks, Harry has already ordered them cups of tea and a full English each, deciding to opt out of breakfast with everyone downstairs this morning, pointedly ignoring Gemma’s annoyingly accurate texts about Harry’s specific whereabouts.

He lowers his head, content to be watching the soft rise and fall of Louis’ chest, his face a glowing, golden picture of innocence, almost lulled into another doze when there’s a knock at the door. He scrambles off the bed to answer it, politely thanking the lady with their breakfast on wheels, and takes it over to a still fast asleep Louis buried under the sheets, despite it being stickily hot, and sets their trays precariously on the bed. He starts to pick at his own, munching on a slice of toast that he dips into his runny egg, knowing Louis will sniff it out within the next thirty seconds as he snoozes a bit longer.

Louis, as if on cue, stirs, inhaling a quick sniff of the bacon and buttered toast, which makes Harry grin before he rolls back over onto his side, planting his face into the pillow.

(And that just won’t do. His breakfast is going to get cold.)

Harry decides nuzzling into Louis’ chest is the best way to wake him, (ignoring how grossly domestic this all is) nosing at his cheek and burrowing his face into Louis’ neck which quickly earns Harry a sweaty palm to the face as Louis swats him away with a muffled groan.

“Hey, Lou,” he murmurs, determinedly pressing his face back into his neck. “Lou. Lou? Lou. Louis.”

“No,” Louis groans again, blindly pushing his hand into Harry’s face again, landing directly over his mouth.

Harry licks it, because of course he does.

“You are such a child.”

And then Louis’ sitting up with his back against the headboard, glaring down at him, arms crossed. He looks about as intimidating as a disgruntled squirrel.

Harry flips over so he’s lying on his back, feeling sated and warm. “A child who’s already ordered your breakfast for you,” he announces proudly.

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Did you ask for a pot of tea?”

Harry nods with a dumb smile on his face, inexplicably happy with himself. He sits up, pushing a teacup and saucer into Louis’ lap, who accepts it with prim eyebrows and a fake look of distaste, taking a large gulp. He hums, taking a few more dainty, exaggerated sips before choosing to give Harry more of an appreciative good morning by pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Harry’s dry lips. (Much better than a sleepy whack to the face, that.)

Surprise and relief flutters through Harry’s innards.

“Now that’s a morning greeting,” he says lowly, letting loose a soft sigh into his mouth, then chances pulling a squirmy Louis into his partially naked lap, his thighs bracketing Harry’s hips, ankles crossing behind Harry’s lower back.

“Yeah, you’re forgiven,” Louis says, voice deliciously husky, his eyes warmly lit as they gaze into Harry’s.

“I wasn’t aware I’d done anything wrong?” Harry laughs.

Louis frowns. “You woke me up before nine. Not acceptable, Harold.”

“You’re right,” Harry says, feigning graveness. “It was very wrong of me. I promise never to interrupt your peaceful slumber again unless it’s an emergency. I understand this pretty face of yours needs to maintain its beauty sleep.”

Louis gives a solemn nod.

“I did bring you tea, though. I think that deserves some praise.” He blinks up at him hopefully with an innocent look. (It’s not innocent.)

“Some praise?” Louis snorts. “No, the people who work here brought me my tea, Harry.”

“Because I asked them to.”

Louis pulls an unmoved face.

“You’re mean.” Harry pouts for good measure.

Louis leans forwards and shakes his head. “Shut up,” he mutters, mouth closing over Harry’s, before they feed each other their breakfast like they’ve never learned how to use their hands, making a complete mess of crumbs all over the bedsheets, a mess worthy of a couple of toddlers, giggling and spraying their mouthfuls of toast and eggs in each other’s faces.

“You look _so_ sexy with egg stuck to your chin,” Harry drawls exaggeratedly, mumbles with his mouth full. “ _Really_ gets me going.”

“Cheers, sweetheart. You look proper fit with Marmite for lipstick. How ‘bout I help you wipe it off?”

Louis licks along the seam of Harry’s mouth messily. Harry squawks, flailing and writhing  on the bed, and then they’re kissing again.

There’s a lot of kissing going on this morning. Harry’s certainly a fan of the kissing.

So, everything is pretty much going according to Harry’s impromptu imaginings, and a chaotic breakfast in bed ends in another heated make-out session, the taste of their kisses buttery and salty, necks and collarbones carelessly littered in more marks and bruises. (They really are making it difficult for themselves, but at least Harry’s got his necktie shirt combos.)

If only it wasn’t nearly thirty degrees outꟷas Louis so indignantly informed him later on that morning.

“Harry,” he gritted, glaring down at the massive bright purplish bruise at the top of his collarbones. His t-shirt did not cover it even slightly. “Just how the fuck do you suggest I cover this up? You’ve practically chomped me raw. I’m not a piece of meat, you fiend.”

“Hey!” Harry protested. “You’ve not exactly left _my_ neck in pristine condition.” He pointed out the trail of red love bites at the base of his own throat.

“Oh, please. _You’re_ alright. You can throw a scarf over that and no one will bat an eyelid because it’s you.”

“Put a turtleneck on?” was his useless suggestion. (He’d always loved Louis in one of those, extra sexy, cheekbones defined.)

“Oh, yeah! I’ll just shove on a fucking turtleneck in almost thirty-degree heat! No one will suspect a thing, will they?” Louis threw up his hands like the dramatic shit he is. (Not that Harry is one to talk.)

“Don’t start snapping at _me_ ,” Harry said, thrusting a finger his way, “when I seem to remember you not being able to get enough of me sucking on your neck last night!” (Louis was particularly vocal, not holding back at all as Harry’s mouth devoured his golden skin, letting him mark Louis up until his heart was content.)

Louis scoffed, stubborn. “Like I said. Not. A. Piece. Of. Meat!”

“Ugh! You drive me crazy,” Harry groaned, falling into frustrated laughter as he collapsed back onto the bed.

Sadly, they’ve not got to the getting each other off part just yet, having been stopping just before things get too messy. And anyway, it’s not even been two whole days of this so far, for god’s sake.

Harry needs to tone his feelings the hell down. He should have learned by now that it never works out quite like he wants.

Even if he’s hoping this time is the exception.

If they’re really going to get into this, they should take whatever they’re doing slowly. Get used to each other again. Find out what each other’s boundaries are before anything else happens. It doesn’t matter that they’ve had sex precisely twice (ish) in five years. Rushing into something more is only going to hurt one of them. (Both of them.) (Maybe.)

“So, what’s on the itinerary for today? Now that the hotel’s beginning to get busier with more wedding guests?” Louis asks, a towel hanging dangerously low around his waist. Harry stares at his happy trail dazedly, mouth dry from where he's lounged out on the bed. “It’s out with the Monopoly and Scrabble, is it?”

“Huh?”

“What are you doing today, Mr Drool?”

Harry huffs out a laugh. “Shut up.” He shifts on the bed and tries gathering his wits enough to think. “Oh, there’s this fancy luncheon at half one? It’s more of a wedding event that’s mostly for Beth and her friends. Then afterwards there’s a florist-based activity and a small charity thing selling bridal keepsakes, or something. Obviously, everyone’s invited, though,” he says hopefully.

Harry is family, so he’s obliged to go. Not that he’d say no to some flower arranging, but it’s mainly his mum’s orders. “Perk up a bit, sweetheart”, were her exact words. (Harry thinks he’s acting and feeling perfectly perky right now, thank you.)

Especially considering he slept all night in Louis’ room again, creeping back to his own on tip toes in a hot, dishevelled state, feeling distinctly like a sneaky teenager leaving his boyfriend’s bed in the guest room without his parents knowing.

Where he stayed for exactly eight minutes before he admitted defeat and was back to Louis' room and immediately attaching his mouth with his.

Harry awoke with sticky skin, his limbs tangled with Louis’ and he’s never felt more at peace, more relaxed.

(Well, not for the last few years, at least.)

Louis, however, is not going to the luncheon.

He’s been asked for drinks at a pub around the corner of the hotel with some of the guys and won’t be back until late afternoon.

Yeah, so. Harry’s not best pleased he won’t be seeing Louis for hours, or maybe not even until late in the evening.

“Can’t. You know the guys have already asked me out to the pub.”

“Probably because they think you’ll pay for more than one round,” Harry says, tone pouty, “what with all the cash you make these days. They're just gonna use you to buy them drinks.”

“Oh, so you don’t think it’s because they’re all infatuated with my good looks and charm, then?”

Harry narrows his eyes with a reluctant half-smile. "If they are, I'm not thrilled with the amount of competition." 

Louis laughs, bending down to give him a lingering kiss, but when Harry winds his arms around Louis’ damp waist, dipping in for a kiss on the lips, Louis pulls right back. “Uh-uh,” he shakes his head. “Not right now, babe.”

Harry tries not to preen at being called _babe_ so easily _,_ and makes himself pout instead. “Why?”

“Gotta meet them at noon. And it’s…” Louis checks his phone, “almost half-eleven now, so I better get a move on.”

Harry whines and falls backwards onto the bed, shielding his chest with his arms.

“Stop sulking. It’s not attractive.”

“Who says I’m trying to be attractive for you?”

“My neck does.” He scowls again, inspecting the bruise on his collarbone. “I think one of my shirts I packed is quite high up on the collar, so hopefully I’ll get away with it.” He shoots Harry another glare.

“Sorry, baby,” Harry murmurs quietly, and Louis’ face stills, staring at him in a way that has Harry wanting to trip over himself to take the endearment back, but then suddenly Louis is in his face again and kissing him hard, running his fingers through Harry’s hair, tugging at it possessively.

Harry feels positively delirious and slightly breathless when Louis finally lets him go.

“I won’t be too long,” Louis murmurs against his mouth, ribbing his teeth along Harry’s lips.

Jesus, he needs some air.

Harry nods slowly, swinging his arms around Louis’ neck and pulling him so that he lands on top of him. Louis laughs, allows it for a moment or two and then he’s releasing himself from Harry’s determined grip, laughing breathily as he moves to get changed.

“You might even get a surprise when I get back,” Louis smirks.

“What kind of surprise?” Harry’s heart pounds in his chest as his eyes continue to linger on the curve of his bare waist, all the way down to the dip of his smooth back. Harry just wants to skim his lips across his skin, suck it heartily so he can taste it.

“No fishing, Styles, or you won’t be getting anything.”

Harry rolls his eyes and Louis smiles, eyes crinkled perfectly in the corners.

“I’ll be quiet, then," he promises.

“For now,” Louis grins, as he does up his top button. 

Harry watches him with a small smirk, his chin nestled by his palm, holding his weight done deliberately when Louis gently nudges Harry’s legs that are trapping Louis’ jeans underneath them, laughs quietly and lets it fade, the thought that this is all a novelty, a fluke, that it’s only adrenaline-fuelled, temporary excitement at finding Louis again niggling in the back of his mind.

That _this,_ all of these little nothings, like calmly watching Louis getting dressed as Harry gets his hair softly ruffled every so often by Louis’ fingers, is all it is.

That once the wedding is over, so will they be, and Louis will go back to London and Harry will still be here, waiting for his life to start.

Without Louis.

The way it was never supposed to be.

But Harry’s got (mostly) three more days with him, so now, with Louis gazing over at him with impish eyes as he deftly buttons up his short-sleeved, pale blue shirt, he’s going to make the most of everything that this wedding is giving him.

**

“Meg Ryan was right. Daises _are_ the friendliest flower,” Harry comments mildly, holding back a yawn as he tips himself backwards on the heels of his boots, arms crossed. “And the most boring too.”

“And which Meg would that be?” Gemma sighs, biting on her nails. “Sally-Meg, Seattle-Meg or Mail-Meg?”

He stares at her pointedly. If she doesn’t know the reference, that’s on her uneducated rom-com self.

Gemma rolls her eyes. “’You’ve Got Mail,’” she says eventually. “Alright, I got there in the end.”

He spares another bored glance down at the most extravagant bouquet of _daises_ he’s ever seen, and yet they still look like an average bunch, a bit wilted, despite the ridiculous price tag of these apparently ‘fancier _’_ ones. (Too much for daisies, anyway.)

Harry, Gemma and his mum are strolling around the flower arrangements at the florist event, set out on large, tableclothed pieces, and honestly, Harry is more interested in the tablecloth designs.

Harry is bored.

What was he saying about not saying no to some flower arranging? Well, he’s changed his mind.

He’d much rather be arranging his own position on a bed upstairs.

And he's also feeling another prominent emotion. One he is all too familiar with.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

It's yet another notification of another Instagram post of another photo of the guys practically fawning over Louis, who’s all smiles, bathing in the guys’ undivided attention, drinks in hand, and several shirts unbuttoned to the point of indecent. (And yes, he realises he’s being a hypocrite, but Louis is in their _laps_.)

So, yeah. That might be why Harry is in such a bad mood. He knows he’s being insufferable right now, and jumping to conclusions, and basically all over the place in the shape of one pathetically jealous, stupidly in love, ridiculous heap.

“Daisies are sweet,” Anne says absently.

“Maybe if you were having a wedding in a barn─”

Gemma snickers into her coffee cup.

“Harry,” Anne scolds. “That’s not very a festive thing to say.”

“Yeah, Harry. What have these poor daisies done to you?”

“I just think there’s more appropriate flowers for wedding bouquets," he says primly.

“There’s tons of other flowers here, H. Not just bloody daises.” 

“Well, these arrangements are half-arsed at best,” he drones. “Where are all the lilies and carnations? Clearly classier. They should try throwing in some peonies and hydrangeas with the roses. And these colour schemes are so lazy.”

“What crawled up your arse this morning?” Gemma says under her breath. “Or who _didn’t_ crawl up there _,_ should I say?” she mutters a beat after.

“Gross.” He glares at his sister, who’s very much done with his annoying behaviour. Harry's well aware when he's being annoying but that doesn't mean he's willing to snap out of it.

“Can we stop talking about crawling up people’s bums, please? This is hardly the best time for the topic, is it?” Their mum frowns, eyeing her surroundings sheepishly. Beth, her mother, and her bridesmaids are on the other side of the garden, inspecting some wildly colourful tropical bouquets. Harry thinks they’re just tacky and makes a face with his tongue sticking out like grown-ups do.

“Oh, so we can all talk about bums later in the day over margaritas?” Gemma quips, ignoring Harry, her hands on her hips and looking far too satisfied with herself. "I have some questions about bums myself I'd like to run by you, mother."

Mum smirks but tries to clamp it down before it spreads. “This isn’t the _place_ for it. This is a swanky hotel, Gemma. You’re lowering the tone. And I'd rather you didn't discuss this in front of your mother."

“Harry started it.”

“How did I?” Harry demands.

“Your face looks like a slapped arse.”

“Enough with behinds!” Their mother says loudly. She gets a few looks from some of the older relatives they have. The three of them snigger as their mum gives both Harry and Gemma soft shoves, messing up their carefully constructed hair. They immediately whine and fuss over it.

“Not the hair,” they scowl at the same time.

“Honestly, you two may as well have gone to the pub.”

“I wish I had,” Harry grumbles. He could easily be the one sitting in Louis’ lap right now, or Louis would be sitting in is, snug and tipsy and all Harry's.

Oh, but wait. No, they couldn’t.

Because they’re caught in one of Harry’s stupid lies because he can’t suck up a bit of poking around his life and a bit of judgement slapped on top.

“Jesus,” Gemma whispers, widening her eyes and then making a show of rolling them, all with a knowing, smug smile on her face. “Someone’s happy.”

Harry flicks his gaze to her, unimpressed.

“What was that?”

“Harry, why don’t you just go along with the boys?” Anne suggests, her purse slung higher over her shoulder as she inspects some yellow tulips, moving onto a small, pretty selection of pale blue peonies, arranged in a quaint basket.

“They’re nice,” Harry says, a bit more inspired, a small smile curving his lips.

“Of course, _you’d_ like those ones.” Gemma gives him a pointed look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry says slowly.

She shrugs. “Doesn’t mean anything unless we’re talking about certain blue-eyed males.”

Harry narrows his eyes at Gemma in warning, but Gemma only continues to smirk, turning away with her arms folded, slurping the last of her coffee.

Anne studies them both intently, having completely disregarded the flowers in favour of eyeing Harry until he squirms on the spot. Her brows then raise, apparently spotting something in Harry’s carefully blank face.

Or maybe a bit lower… say, around his neck… Which. Fabulous. She’s twigged about the love bites hidden underneath his scarf. He knew she was suspicious as soon as he turned up in it downstairs.

“So how’s Louis?” she says casually. Though, it’s not casual. It’s in no way casual at all. He sees Gemma’s smile falter in the corner of his eye. 

“He’s okay, as far as I know,” Harry replies, surprisingly evenly. He doesn’t even let his face twitch.

Anne hums. “Will he be joining us for dinner tonight?”

“No,” he answers immediately. “He has other plans.”

“Oh? So you know what they are, do you? You’re still close enough that he tells you what he’s doing with his day?” Her tone is annoyingly self-satisfied. She clearly knows more than she’s letting on. They haven’t been careful enough. He knows it. “Have you made up now? After the other night? I'm sure whatever it was couldn't have been too serious?” God, this woman's relentless. 

“We’re, um,” he pauses, unsure of what to say. Shit. “Yeah, we’re fine.”

“Ah, good." She brightens. "I’m glad to hear you’re… well, that you’re on speaking terms.” She tries to feign nonchalance, but her eyes are gauging his reaction. Yeah. His mum doesn’t believe a word he says.

“What do you want to say?” Harry sighs, resisting the urge to check his phone for the fiftieth time in a row. “Go on, I know you’re dying to tell me.”

His mum continues to stare at him. It’s unnerving. “I’m going to wait until you tell me, actually. When you want to, that is.”

Harry stares at her, brows furrowed in disbelief. “Huh?”

“Yeah? Huh?” Gemma says, mirroring his expression.

“Come on, let’s get some lunch. I’m starving.” His mum takes the lead, walking off back inside and towards the bar instead.

Gemma turns to Harry with pursed lips, a smug tilt to the corners. “You’re not fooling everybody, it seems.”

Nope. Evidently not. This is clearly all a wash-out.

He wipes a hand over his face. It’s not as hot as the previous days but it’s still unpleasantly sticky and humid. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve decided what I’m going to do.”

“About?”

“Louis. Obviously.”

“And what _are_ you gonna do about Louis Tomlinson?” Gemma smiles.

“I’m going to ask him if I can… well, if I can go… um, visit him,” he settles on, pulse unexpectedly getting stuck in his throat, his stomach swooping nervously.

“Visit him?” Gemma says, scrunching her nose. “Is that it?”

“WelI, I can’t just declare I'd move to London, can I? He'll know he's largely the reason. Who wouldn't be overwhelmed by that? And... What if he doesn’t want me to?” Harry says, small and unsure, because really. What if there’s no room for Harry there? Louis lives with Liam, he works with Liam, his whole life is there. His friends, his job, his home.

Suddenly the idea seems silly. Harry’s making up fantasies of their life together when he hasn't got a clue what Louis is thinking.

He just doesn’t know how to stop.

“You’ve not even asked him yet."

“Yeah, well, he... I'mꟷ” Harry stumbles off, tongue-tied, because…

“Louis,” Harry breathes.

“Yeah, H. You need to ask Louis what he thinks about this first, before you go jumping to dramatic conclusions. See, there’s these simple things called ‘words’ꟷ”

“No _, Louis_. He’s _here_.”

Gemma follows his eye line. She cringes. “Oh. And he’s with mum.”

“Oh, god.”

Louis has indeed been ensnared by his mother, and oh my god, he’s being dragged away and to who knows where, their arms linked and his mum smiling from ear to ear, and shit. Louis turns and looks over his shoulder, eyes widening when they fall on Harry and Gemma, and then falls into an overcompensating laugh.

“I think you better go and save him, Harry.”

**

“So the scarf worked wonders,” Louis teases they enter his hotel room, Harry having just narrowly missed having to fake an emergency phone call for Louis to take as Anne kept him in conversation, eager to keep it going until Louis told her he had an important phone call for work to make.

“Yeah, alright,” Harry says, shaking his head and then throwing the scarf on the floor in a ball.

“Your mum definitely suspects something’s going on between us.”

“I know,” Harry sighs, instantly arching his body into Louis’ as he closes the door with his boot. He backs him up against it, smiling against Louis’ mouth. Louis grins back, hands resting at his soft hips. “But is that such a bad thing?”

“Well, you’ve changed your tune. You’re the one that freaks out whenever your mum’s tried to pry about us so far.”

“Yeah, but what if we weren’t exactly lying to her anymore?”

“How d’you mean?”

A nervous look passes over Harry’s face and he bites his lips, green eyes regarding his reverently.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, clutching a little tighter at his hips.

Harry shakes his head, connecting their cheeks. “You were gone ages. Missed you,” he mumbles against him.

Louis feels a wave of fondness wash over him, smiling into the side of Harry's face. “Missed you, too. You clingy sod.”

Harry pulls back and smiles, but then his teeth start to worry his lip again, gaze lowered, and that has Louis’ panic bells settling in.

“Louis, um. I need to tell you something. Or not, like… I mean, I need to _ask_ you something.”

Louis nods, waits, studying Harry’s fidgety body language closely, wondering what he’s about to ask him with slight apprehension. Does he want them to pack this charade in already? Tell everyone they weren't actually an item? Tell everyone they are? Louis' gut dips.

“I don’t want us to be a lie anymore. I don’t want to keep pretending.”

“Oh,” Louis blinks.

Harry stares at him, eyes imploring. "So..."

"So," Louis exhales.

“You know how I feel about you now, and Iꟷ well, I want to try this." He gently strokes the small of Louis' back. "So, I suppose what I’m asking isꟷ can we maybe, like, go out?” He huffs the last bit of the sentence out in a nervous laugh, staring down at their feet, his cheeks lightly dusted with pink.

Louis isn’t surprised exactly, but he wasn’t expecting Harry to come out with this so soon. Certainly not on this trip did he think anything was going to happen at all, even if the sexual tension carried on the way it was going, especially considering Louis is based in London now. That's some distance. He didn’t think Harry would go for it. And it wouldn’t be a good idea either. Louis shouldn't be giving Harry false hope when he's snowed under at work.

And this is them. It can't be this easy?

And yet something urgent and wild curls around Louis’ innards as he breathes, “Okay,” almost instantly. “We can do that.”

“Really?” Harry asks, eyes flaring in surprise. “You’ll go out with me? Seriously?” he smiles. “Like on dates and everything?”

“Yes, Harry,” Louis finds himself insisting, smiling widely. “Like on dates and _everything_.” He rolls his eyes fondly. “No, I mean, I’d love to go out with you,” he then tells him quietly, his insides fluttering madly.

Harry scrunches up his nose in delight, a dopey grin smoothing over his features as his hands slide up Louis’ arms and over his shoulders. “Good. That’s good. I’m glad, because me too. Obviously.”

“Idiot,” Louis huffs out a laugh. “ _Obviously_ ,” he repeats, teasing him.

“Hey,” Harry whines through his blinding grin, then kisses Louis square on the mouth before Louis knows what’s happening, sending little shockwaves of warmth and pleasure thrumming through his bloodstream.

Harry smiles into the kiss, cupping Louis’ neck with his big paws, gentle but firm, and Louis melts, melts into his hands, into his embrace, into the carpet even, softly exhaling against Harry’s plump lips, feeling like a heavy weight has been finally lifted from his shoulders (probably Harry’s hands, since they’re now clasping at his lower back, fingertips tucking themselves under Louis’ shirt).

Louis jolts slightly at the touch, but grins, and wider still when Harry returns it, pressing his mouth to Louis’ in earnest, making soft noises in the back of his throat, and it’s a bit wet, but somehow it spurs Louis on more, only making him more impatient for wherever this kiss might lead.

“Wow, you’re really good at this,” Louis teases lowly, moaning slightly when Harry dips his tongue inside, because Louis’ dick is now in control of his brain. “You’ve perfected your kissing skills immensely since we last did this,” he pauses, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. 

Harry hums his appreciation, the low sound sending a wave of want pooling low and hot in his belly. “It’s only because your lips are so appealing, my dear.”

Louis snorts, pushes his tongue between Harry’s fervent, awaiting lips, kissing him hard enough to bruise, and Harry grips at him tighter, wrapping his arms around Louis’ shoulders as though he’s trying to merge their bodies into one. Louis snickers, resisting the stupid urge to murmur ‘2 Become 1’ into his mouth for all of three seconds.

Harry gasps as he breaks off, spluttering frenzied laughter. (He’s actually a hyena. Louis is sure.) “What the fuck?” he squeals, eyes wide with delight. “ _The Spice Girls_? And you call me the cheesy one!”

“ _Wanna make love to ya, baby_ ,” Louis croons, attempting to sound seductive and sultry but winds up making Harry laugh harder instead.

Louis giggles as he grabs at his shirt, singing along until he gets to the end of the chorus, and then deciding, no, he’s going to continue this, because he’s gone mad from the sparks on Harry’s tongue. _“Silly games that you were playing. Empty words we both were saying._ ”

“ _Let’s work it out, boy. Let’s work it out, booooy_ ,” Harry sings loudly, and fucking marvellously, might he add.

“Unreal! Fucking unreal, Harry!” Louis raucously applauds, beaming as he jumps on the bed.

Harry preens, giving a ridiculous bow and flipping his head with a hand waving in the air.

The silliness dissolves quickly though, their kisses growing more desperate and breathless by the second, Harry’s impatient hands feeling underneath Louis’ shirt, gliding restless palms along the dips and slopes of Louis’ back. He arches into Harry instinctively, hips slanting forwards, pressing into Harry’s groin.

Harry stops, panting as he pulls away, fingers lightly tugging the hem of his shirt, his eyes meeting Louis’ with a silent question lost on the tip of his tongue.

Louis answers him by tugging off his own shirt and letting it drop to the floor.

Harry’s stare is hungry, gaze roaming across Louis’ chest, his breathing shallow and quick.

His hands reach out, tentative and gentle, the pads of his fingers feeling over the contours of Louis’ torso, tracing the lines of his muscles, rousing goosebumps across his skin. Harry’s arms then wrap around the middle of his back, fingers pressing into flesh like a claim.

“You’re so… gorgeous,” Harry says hoarsely, visibly swallowing. He parts his lips, swaying towards him and lingering over Louis’ jaw, absorbing this heady intimacy, just hovering for a while.

Louis gravitates into Harry’s space, dizzy.

There’s a light sheen of sweat matted across Harry's forehead, a heat bump coming up around his chin, and there’s a small spot by his nose, his fringe well and truly deflated.

Louis thinks he’s never looked more beautiful, his dimples popping on either side of his mouth.

He cups Harry’s face and brings him down for another kiss, their lips effortlessly moulding together, quiet pants escaping as they clutch at waists, shoulders, clothes.

Harry’s hands land on Louis’ bum, giving it a possessive squeeze which jolts Louis’ fingers into undoing Harry’s shirt, speedily unfastening his buttons and pulling it off in one quick swoop, immediately finding his mouth again as their chests push desperately against each other.

Somehow, they fall backwards onto the bed, both frantically trying to rid themselves of their jeans, and thankfully, Louis’ wearing a looser fit today.

Harry, on the other hand.

“Ah, fuck,” Harry grits sideways on the bed. He frowns deeply, pulling hard at the tight material. “Can’t get themꟷughꟷover me fuckin’ bumꟷ” He gets onto his knees, only to topple over again, face buried in the covers.

Louis releases a string of breathless giggles and coos, instantly smoothing out the frown on Harry’s face with his thumb, prompting his dimples to appear and cheeks to glow cerise.

Harry splutters out a strenuous laugh as he struggles to pull the jeans down his thighs.

“Help,” he yelps through a grin. “Help me! My jeans refuse to leave my legs. Man down!”

“Aww, you poor boy. Come ‘ere.” Louis sits up and rolls Harry over, pulling at the jeans himself with a great amount of effort, thoroughly amused by Harry’s whiny laughs into the pillow as he lies wriggling on his stomach.

“Jesus Christ, Harry,” he huffs as he continues to tug. He pauses, shoulders slumping as he exhales dramatically. “Actually. You know what? I’ve slept with you before. I know what it’s like.” He feigns an unbothered expression, mouth tilting upside down. “I’m not sure this is worth the aggro, if I’m quite honest.”

Harry lifts his head up in record speed, mouth wide open. “Fuck you!” he yells, laughing.

“Nah,” he drawls. “I’ll pass, ta.”

“See if I give you the opportunity again to get a piece of this, arsehole!” He crawls up the king-size bed, making a show of swaying his bum, jeans halfway down his shins. He looks ridiculous. Louis’ chest swells with overwhelming affection. He feels drunk.

“A piece of that arsehole?” he raises his brows.

“No, _you_ ,” Harry smirks, sliding on his sunglasses as he lies down, half-naked with his arms crossed over his toned chest. “You’re the arsehole.”

“And you’re beyond ridiculous.”

His hands shoot out to encircle Harry’s ankles, dragging him backwards, utterly delighted by Harry’s squealing cackles.

“No, fuck off, you wanker!”

“Oh, you romantic man, you.”

When they finally get rid of the fucking jeans, Harry’s limbs are everywhere.

“This is well sexy, right?” Harry asks breathlessly, flopped out on his back with his legs in the air, his face bright red. His jeans in one of his hands, the other flung over his forehead. 

And he’s crazy about him.

“Oh, yeah. I could _so_ come in my pants right now,” Louis smirks sideways.

“You better,” Harry smirks back, moving to flatten his body over Louis’, and starts to rut against him, mouthing at his jaw, thumb pressing into Louis’ cheek.

Louis moans into it, hands sliding down Harry’s smooth back until they land on Harry’s lovely pert bum, pushing him down against his groin harder, a little desperate for more friction.

“Take ‘em off,” Harry murmurs, his eyes closed, hands clasped on Louis’ shoulders.

Louis dips his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s boxers and slowly peels them off until Harry fleetingly turns onto his side to remove them completely. He finds Louis’ gaze and smiles, lips pressed together bashfully. “You next.”

“Mmm, I would love to,” Louis mumbles happily.

Once they’re both completely naked, they roll back onto each other and resume their grinding, fully hard now as slickness leaks between their bellies. They slide together, movements quickening in pace, their hands feeling urgently over curves and warm skin.

Louis gently grips at Harry’s waist, then rolls him onto his back. Harry gazes up at him, canting his searching hips upwards helplessly, a high pink flush spread over his chest and neck.

“Lou, _please_ ,” he says, a crease of mounting pleasure between his brows, sweat beading at his hairline. He has a lot less of it than Louis remembers, but it still manages to fall into Harry’s eyes in a sweaty mess. “I’m soꟷ God, I need you toꟷ” He gasps when Louis’ teeth bite into the pudge on his hip, sucking a bruise there. 

Harry moans so Louis sucks harder. “Need me to what?” His teeth teasingly graze his earlobe, hands cupping the side of the left side of his face.

“You know fucking well what, you tease.”

Louis releases a short cackle, resuming his sucking kisses around Harry’s groin. “Hmm. I don’t know. Do we have time?”

Harry whines, eyes screwed shut as he palms Louis’ ass cheeks, hips rolling against him. Louis plants a wet kiss on his cheekbone, dragging his lips across his skin, mouthing heartily over his jaw line until he gets back to his mouth, kissing him filthy and fast, as though he’s trying to cram in five years’ worth of missed kisses.

Harry kisses him back just as dirty, sucking Louis’ tongue into his mouth and moaning around it.

“You are filthy.”

“You’re worse than I am,” Harry pants, fingers tangled in the hair at Louis’ nape.

“I beg to differ. Sexting me with your family around. Outrageous, Harry.”

Harry locks his legs around Louis and squeezes. “Louis, please,” he whines.

Louis smirks.

“Can we?”

Louis doesn’t answer him, just lets him mouth trace Harry’s lightly stubbled jaw.

“Lou, fuck me?” Harry begs, whimpering and unable to lie still on the mattress; his body won’t stop twisting and writhing, restless and taut. His fingers ceaselessly run over the length of Louis’ back, making him shiver, and Louis wants to give him everything.

“God, all right. If I must,” Louis sighs, rolling his eyes behind a barely tampered down smile, but then he’s being hastily tugged by Harry’s hands, who captures his neck insistently, keeping his hold on Louis’ face, steady and grounding, his thighs brushing Louis’ ribs.

And Louis can feel every part of him, one particular part, in fact, which pokes at the side of his stomach, smearing stickiness over his skin.

Another wave of hot arousal washes over him, causing his hips to stutter, starting to eagerly rock into him. Harry groans at the movement and desperately ruts his body up to meet him, his hands clasping at Louis’ shoulders as he tips his head back in a gasp.

Louis’ so hard, rubbing against Harry relentlessly, who’s sweaty and pliant underneath him, cheeks bright pink.

“Needꟷ Fingers, Lou.” He scrambles for Louis’ forearms, hands gliding until he finds Louis’ fingers and tangles them with his, twisting on the sheets. “Please, hurry up and do something."

Louis brings them up to his mouth and kisses the pads of Harry’s, who dazedly watches him. “Yeah, okay, babe. Have some patience."

"I don't do patience," he growls.

"Fuck me," Louis cackles.

"Afterwards," Harry blurts.

Louis blinks. "Shit, alright. But I'm gonna have to let you go a second," he says, shifting them onto their sides as he attempts to get off the bed and search through his wash bag for lube and condoms.

He strokes Harry’s hip as he pulls the items out of his bag and climbs back onto the bed to settle between Harry’s parted legs, another coil of intense heat tightening the muscles in his lower stomach.

And god, Louis wants him so much, memories of their last night before he left for London flooding behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, brushing Harry’s hips. “Turn over for me, darling.”

Harry moans, doing as he says, and pushes his face into his pillow, hips restlessly shifting on the bed. Louis coats two fingers in lube and circles the crease between Harry’s cheeks before he’s slowly pressing the tips inside. He works his way up to the knuckle, then crooks one finger all the way inside, working him open as Harry wriggles and pushes back onto it.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry gasps when Louis pushes in another, tipping his head back, spine arching off the bed.

Louis slides in and out in a steady motion, listening to the sounds Harry makes to guide him.

When Harry starts chanting his name in an obscenely breathless tone, Louis has to squeeze the base of himself to stop from coming on the spot. “Jesus… Harry, you’reꟷ” He’s cut off by rapid knocking against the door.

His head shoots up to stare at it, outraged at being interrupted in the middle of _this._

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Louis hisses, collapsing onto Harry’s back.

Harry’s pants abruptly cease, hips stilling. He peers over his shoulder at Louis in shock. “Who’s that?” he breathes, looking on the verge of tears.

“God knows,” Louis breathes back, the knocking resuming. “Fuck.”

Louis could scream.

“Harry, please tell me that isn’t your mother.”

“Louis? Are you in there, mate? It’s Niall.”

“Niall?” Harry mouths incredulously. “Shit.” His eyes widen. “Oh, shit. I forgot. He text me last night. Said he’d be coming today for tomorrow’s stag,” he whispers. He’s still panting so Louis’ barely listening, to be honest. “He’s got some meeting on Monday in Berlin, though, so he can’t stay for the wedding,” he heaves.

Harry flops onto his back and Louis can’t help but stare longingly at Harry’s dick, angry red and leaking at the tip.

Mother fucking Niall.

He jams the heels of his palms to his eyes. “What does Niall do now anyway?” he whispers just as the knocks resume.

“Louis?” Niall says louder.

Louis’ phone starts to buzz on the floor too.

“Give me strength,” he breathes. Louis bites his cheek, highly frustrated for a number of reasons right now.

“He makes and sells his own brand of beer to a new chain of bars across Europe,” Harry murmurs almost inaudibly, absently, flinging his wrist over his eyes.

“Right,” Louis raises his brows. “Wow. Nice. But it still begs the question, why’s he at my room and not yours?” he hisses.

“Harry’s not answering his door,” Niall says, as if answering Louis’ unheard question on cue, “so I thought I’d come catch up with your fine self. Though, I’m gathering you’re not around either which is _interesting_.” His tone is smug, and Louis makes a face at Harry, who looks at the ceiling instead. “So, I’ll come back later, I guess. If either of you ever bother to answer your phones, too. Oh, and it’s almost five, by the way. If you guys are, in fact, in there.”

There’s a long pause before Louis’ mouths, “Is he gone?”

“Right. Bye then, Harry. See ya later, Louis. Come and find me once you two have finished up, yeah?” he chirps. “I’m sure you’ve been waiting a long time so I won’t rush you.”

Louis bursts into hysterical giggles.

“Shit,” Harry says after another few seconds, voice a bit strained. He’s got his hands buried in his hair, letting his head bounce onto the pillow, hair askew like a mad scientist’s.

Louis huffs out another laugh.

“He knows.” Harry's expression is almost scared.

“Yup, sounds like it.” Louis laughs again.

“About us, Lou! He knows we were doing stuff in here. _Together_.”

Louis stares at Harry’s red face and frowns.

“Uh, Harry, not too long ago you were saying you wanted to tell your mum the truth about us, and now you’re freaking out that Niall might already know what’s happening?”

Harry meets his eyes for a second then looks away, shoulders hunching up.

“What’s so bad about Niall knowing?”

“It’s not bad. I justꟷ Don’t tell him anything, okay?”

“Okay, fine,” Louis shrugs.

“Okay.”

Louis lays there in silence, head practically resting atop Harry’s thigh.

“Um. It’s probably best we don’t have sex right now, anyway. We’d have to rush downstairs for the rehearsal dinner looking inappropriate and it'll be a whole thing. Okay?"

Louis’ mouth quirks again. He’s just too cute.

“Who has these things in the UK, anyway? Do we have to insist on copying every extra, unnecessary event from America?”

“It’s kind of useful, though? So everyone knows what’s happening.”

“It’s literally a sit-down dinner with speeches. It’s hardly rocket-science, Harry.”

“Some people like to plan their wedding down to the last detail,” Harry replies, firm. “It’s a big deal for some people. Like, yeah, it’s only technically a piece of paper, but it means a lot. You’re being given permission to show how committed you are to another person, pledging that you’re going to take care of them and support them for as long as you live, in front of everyone who’s important to you. I think that’s pretty special if you ask me.” Once Harry is done, his eyes widen, darting his gaze away from Louis, cheeks yet again turning red.

“Okay,” Louis drawls, voice higher in pitch, placing a gentle hand on Harry’s bicep. “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s all right, love. No need to get worked up over this,” he laughs.

“I’m not,” Harry says, unamused.

“You all right?” Louis asks, concerned.

Harry nods quickly.

“Not in a mood now because of a certain kind of frustration?” He winks.

Harry smiles, but it’s barely there. Louis frowns.

“Harry, hey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be a dickhead on purposeꟷ”

Harry shakes his head. “No, it’s notꟷ” He sighs. “I’m gonna take a shower.” And with that, he traipses off to Louis’ bathroom, naked and leaving Louis staring after him in confusion.

Louis flops back down onto the bed with a sigh to match Harry’s, an uncomfortable feeling starting to flood his insides.

**

Harry’s quiet with Louis after his shower.

He makes up a lame excuse about having a headache. (He does actually have one. It’s just he also has _heart_ ache and obviously it’s not something he can shake off with a couple of Paracetamol.)

He’s just making himself a little crazy over Louis finding out that Harry’s feelings are a bit more than a crush before he gets a chance to admit it himself. (And maybe what his reaction might be once he knows the full story.) The last thing he wants to do is scare Louis off with a third-party declaration of his love and throw in a self-made invitation to move to London with him on top of that.

Louis’ agreed to go out with him, and so far he's been very willing with everything else they've done, but... well, that could mean anything? Louis might think that they’ll go on dates occasionally when either one of them is in the city, perhaps hook-up, catch up, and that’s that. The thought of it makes Harry's stomach churn with unease. 

And it isn’t that he doesn’t trust Niall, that he doesn't want him to know, but he does know that Niall won’t let Harry get away with leaving things unspoken between him and Louis. Not again. Not with their track record with not talking about the real things. He’ll set Gemma on him when he leaves. There’s no way out.

He has to tell Louis what’s been building up inside of him since they bloody met.

Because Harry wants so much more than a few dates now and again while they live different lives, in different cities.

He wants them to be in a real relationship. He doesn't wants bits of Louis. Small parts to collect and hold onto when he can. He wants all of Louis. Every part. He wants them to talk about the serious stuff. He wants to hold his sweaty hand. He wants the stupid fights. He wants the shared meals on the same tablecloth. He wants to share a bathroom and a bed and a bank account. He wants Louis’ grumpy moods and messy living habits, and he wants to know Louis will still love Harry even when he’s being unreasonable and short-tempered and a proper brat.

He wants the good, the bad, and the kisses.

That’s what he’s always wanted. But maybe he needs to lower his expectations...

But Louis doesn’t stand for Harry’s silence for long, and he insists on them taking a quick walk to the park that’s around the corner from the hotel.

He’s currently stuffing his face with sandwiches, and Harry watches with a fond smile, struck by how similar this scene is from their uni days. Sitting in the park together and eating their lunch, decidedly teasing each other and sharing ear buds as they listen to their new music finds, waiting for football practice to start and bickering in the cold snap, before relenting and then huddling up together for warmth.

“You do realise we’re eating a full course meal in a couple hours?" 

“I’m hungry now, mate,” Louis mumbles.

Harry shakes his head, smiling as Louis drops most of the sandwich filling down his t-shirt, his hands half-heartedly brushing it off onto the grass.

A pang in Harry’s chest forces its way to the surface, but fortunately the loud buzzing of Louis’ phone distracts him before he does something stupid, like cry because he’s overwhelmed by Louis’ general existence.

He watches as Louis glances at his phone and hesitates.

“Take it,” Harry urges. “If it’s work, it must be important, right?”

Louis hesitates again, meeting Harry’s eyes before he answers, uncertainty lining his irises. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“Okay, then,” Harry smiles. “Better get it then.”

The phone is still ringing. Louis is still staring at Harry.

“Well?” Harry prompts, huffing out a laugh.

Louis puts the phone to his ear. “Hi, Louis Tomlinson speaking.”

He goes on for a few minutes and Harry busies himself with his own phone, attempting to focus his attention on his Instagram feed rather than what Louis is saying to the person he’s speaking to, which all sounds very exciting and yes, important.

When Louis hangs up, he’s buzzing with what appears to be a muddle of conflicting emotions on his face. His legs won’t stop tremoring obsessively, raking his hand through his hair until he’s shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. 

Harry looks at him for a moment, waiting for Louis to speak. He doesn’t so Harry decides to bite the bullet and ask him, heart in his mouth.

“Um, so after the wedding…” Harry starts, pausing to shift his body closer to Louis’, taking in a faint breath. “What will you be doing? Like, I know you said you were going back to London, but what then? What do you have lined up? Was it good news just now, or something else? You don’t have to tell me. Or you can if you want to. That's okay, too,” he rambles, silently chastising himself for being such a mess.

Louis stops chewing on his sandwich, tongue sneaking out to lick the dab of mayonnaise in the corner of his lip. “What have I got lined up?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, “like, what kinds of stuff. More photoshoots? Liam’s? Any of your own?”

“That’s a lot of questions to take in in twenty seconds,” Louis smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "A record for you."

Harry just shrugs, giving him a timid smile.

Louis swallows the rest of his sandwich, brushing the crumbs of his lap. He’s quiet a moment as he sips his coffee, then his eyes meet Harry’s.

“Um. I’ve actually just signed on a new client. She’s a really exciting one," Louis smiles. "Her style is quite retro and quirky, but relatable. Definitely think she could breathe some fresh air into the business. She’s already got some photo ops lined up a week after I get back, so. Yeah. It looks promising.”

“Sounds brilliant. So, you’ll be pretty busy, then?”

“For a good couple of months, at least. She’s also signed up to walk the runway in Rome and Paris at some shows. There’s lots of stuff to plan around her schedule, so it’s looking good. Two clients now,” he grins. “I have two!”

“That’s so, so brilliant, Lou. I'm really proud of you,” Harry smiles, and he is. So unbelievably proud, but still he has to try to keep the disappointment out of his voice. It’s stupid. He doesn’t even know why he’s suddenly upset. He should feel happy for Louis; instead all he can think about is when he’s going to get to see him next. Not for weeks, it sounds like. (God, if he could not be selfish for more than a minute.)

“There’s also… I might be flying out to Milan as soon as Monday night.”

Harry’s stomach plummets further. “Oh, yeah?” He probably sounds like he's swallowed whiskey from the bottle.

Louis nods tentatively. “Yeah. Not only have I been offered a place to walk on the runway for another show, it’s gonna be a great place for me to do some networking. Some really great designers and teams will be there. I could put my name out there. I’d have my own career. Hopefully. I might have to cut back on the time I give Liam,” he chuckles, “but yeah.”

Harry's chest swells with pride. He smiles genuinely along, listening to Louis’ enthusiasm grow and transfer itself over to Harry until Louis’ smile diminishes and he’s studying Harry’s face with apprehension. Fear and sadness creeps into Harry's veins again.

“It, uh. It just means a lot of travelling, a lot of my time.”

“Yeah, yeah, no. Of course. It sounds amazing, Lou. Really. I’m so happy for you,” Harry says, slightly frantic, meaning it with every fibre of his being and at the same time, he feels desperate for reassurance that Louis won’t disappear from his life again without a trace. "No one deserves this more than you."

"Thanks, Harry," Louis smiles faintly, voice quiet.

There’s a long quiet stretch between them as the sun continues to beam down on them, perched on the grass, water bottles in their laps. Harry fiddles with his, his stomach twisting in knots, wondering whether he should just forget this whole thing. This whole naïve idea about the two of them making it work. Maybe he just isn’t meant to be part of Louis’ life anymore.

(Or he’s being a ridiculous, dramatic twat.)

“What?” Louis says, eyeing him closely.

“What?”

“You look down all of a sudden. What is it?” Something indefinable flickers in Louis’ eyes.

 _I could say the same for you,_ he doesn't say.

“Nothin’,” Harry breathes instead through another smile, disguising the heavy knot he feels weighing him down with a sharp laugh.

“Really?” Louis says, dubious.

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, slowly pressing his thumb and forefinger under Louis’ chin to bring him in for a chaste kiss. He lets his lips slide over Louis' languidly, wondering how many more he's going to get.

“Okay, then,” Louis murmurs, eyes closed. “Just… you look like you want to tell me something but... I dunno." He gives Harry's knee a tap. "I know your tells, you know.”

A brief surge of panic fills his chest at the thought of Louis being able to read his mind. “Yeah? What are those?”

Louis smiles knowingly. “Well. You get all tense in your shoulders and your eyes go still, like you’re trying really hard to hide what you’re actually feeling.”

“Right.” Harry shifts awkwardly, bringing his knees up to his chest and away from Louis.

"You also get this look on your face like you're constipated."

"Charming," Harry says, shooting him a frown.

"Yeah, truly."

Harry swallows, wrapping his arms around his legs.

“Well?” Louis presses, clearly not wanting to brush this off. "Tell me, then. What's wrong?"

Harry releases a heavy sigh, tipping his head back before he takes Louis’ hand and begins to play idly with his fingers, staying quiet. Louis lets him do it, just watching Harry's face.

"What's wrong?" he says, keeping his voice neutral. “We’re not really going to be able to date, are we?” He looks up to meet Louis’ eyes which are flooded with an apology. Harry chews his cheek, restlessly wringing out his hands when he lets go of Louis'. "You'll leave after the wedding, and... I'm not going to see you for... well, I won't exactly be seeing you regularly, will I?" Harry forces a smile, a resigned smile. 

Louis’ silent for a few beats. “I won’t be able to ask you out as much as we’d both like, no.” He tries to give Harry a rueful grin with his confirmation, but instead it comes across as a grimace.

Harry sneaks his hand back into Louis' properly and stares at the sun glistening across the lake's surface, the ducks swimming obliviously, gliding with no effort at all.

“Look, I’m sorry, Harry,” Louis implores and Harry turns to look at him. “I probably shouldn’t have been so fast to agree to what we'reꟷ I mean, I knew this was a probability. That I’d be getting a call like that. Maybe I should have made it clear beforehand that I couldn't just... I don't know, like, promise you anything.” He sounds so apologetic that it tears Harry up a bit, Louis' face slumped with worry.

“No, hey, Lou, it’s _fine_ ,” Harry insists. “It’s your career," he gestures, holding his hands up. "What you’ve been working towards. What you’ve always wanted."

“Wellꟷ”

“You’ve always been into fashion, Lou. I know, okay,” he smiles, grasping at Louis’ knee. “And with the things we want... they’re time-consuming, right? That’s how it works.” Harry smiles wider, hoping to diffuse the uneasy tension that’s starting to build between them. "If you want what your heart desires, you've gotta go get it, yeah?" Harry smile is tight now, aware of the effort it takes to make his muscles work in his face.

“Still,” Louis whispers, eyes downcast as he absently picks at his laces.

Harry watches the motion in silence, his thoughts recklessly pressing their way out between his lips when he says: “I guess... I’m just tired of missing you."

Harry utters the honest words so quietly that he hopes Louis didn’t manage to hear them, his heart jack-rabbiting inside his chest as he waits for the silence to pass. After a long moment, he chances a glance over at Louis anyway, unable to keep his eyes off him for too long, and finds Louis already staring back at him, a question in his eyes.

"I'm sorry if that makes me selfish." Harry stares at Louis, needing him to understand. "I am really happy for you, though. Really," he continues firmly. "Everything worked out just as you wanted it to," he smiles.

Louis parts his lips to say something but then a noisy flock of birds make an abrupt appearance, their loud flapping and squawking making them both jump out of their skin, effectively putting an end to the charged moment and startling them further back up the hill as they grapple for balance.

They both turn to look at each other and burst out laughing, their hands somehow now entwined again, fingers tightly interlocked.

“Come on,” Louis says, like he’s eager to change the subject. Harry tries not to wince at the lingering hurt of Louis not saying something back to reassure them both, something like, _we'll still see each other from time to time._ He probably doesn’t know when that might be yet anyway. Instead, he tugs Harry up by his hands, giving him a pressed smile. “Let’s head back, yeah?”

Harry nods, lets Louis lead the way, swinging their hands gently between their hips. Harry allows a minuscule quirk of his mouth, ignoring the numbness that’s stinging hotly behind his eyes.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics indicates a flashback.
> 
> I rushed looking through this so I'm hoping it's okay. Sorry for any mistakes! Almost there now. I do like to drag this on, don't I? Apologies, hah :) xx 
> 
> (Also, the wait was a while with this one, sorry!! but hoping the next update is much sooner!)

 

The walk back to the hotel is… quiet. Too quiet, stirring a sense of unease in Louis’ gut.

At first, he doesn’t think much of it, too preoccupied with the irritation of the soles of his feet rubbing along the inside seam of his shoes (the pain for fashion). He leaves through the park’s gates holding Harry’s hand (as he was more than happy to do halfway during the walk here), and they’re striding along the road together in what Louis thinks is comfortable silence.

He’s wrong. 

They pass by several fancy bakeries and pretty looking florists (most of which are displaying wedding bouquets) that Louis’ sure Harry is going to excitedly comment on. But… he doesn’t.

Louis frowns at the lack of reaction. There’s not even a peep. Not a miniscule glance. No obvious joke or a smile aimed Louis’ way as Harry announces quite proudly for the 1263rd time that he used to both bake _and_ dabbled as aflorist (he’d arranged the flowers on the table centrepieces at a cousin’s Christening  _once_  when they were in their second year, and ever since he’s claimed to be an expert).

But now? With the opportunity to point this out, Harry says nothing, fixing his gaze on the road. Silent.

To anyone else, it wouldn’t mean anything.

To Louis, it means Harry is upset.

And it’s slightly unsettling and he’s this close to checking his head for a temperature. (Which would be pointless in this heat, but what can he say. He turns into a mothering wreck where Harry is concerned.)

And okay, Louis isn’t completely dense. He _knows_ Harry is thinking about the conversation they just had. Just  _what_  Harry’s exactly thinking about it is what’s got Louis’ stomach curling in growing knots, sweat beading at his hairline with every step they take. Of courseHarry’s disappointed about not being able to see Louis for a while. That if they do decide to become something more serious, it’s going to be a long wait to start it up again. And what they’ve begun to dabble in, it’s… well, it’s been nice.

No, not nice. It’s been _amazing._

Louis’ got butterflies. (He hasn’t had _butterflies_ for years.) Harry manages to effortlessly wrap him up in an array of warm emotions, spiked with strong doses of adrenaline and anticipation and an excitement that only he can stir in his belly.

Still, though. Louis doesn't want to place all his hope in one basket. Not yet. So. Rather than think about the fact he’s very likely got a plane to catch come Monday, away from Harry again, missing him again, Louis chooses to ignore the heaviness in his stomach, lets the warm air blanket around their bodies, fragranced with summer, the brick of the shops maroon and well-kept, the street tidy and cobbled in some places as they make the short walk back to the hotel. Louis keeps shooting tiny glances over at Harry, who stays facing resolutely ahead, a small crease denting the creamy skin between his brows.

God, this is so not what Louis thought he’d be doing when he sent the invitation back to confirm his attendance to this flippin' wedding retreat. Though, Louis knows deep down (not even deep, actuallyꟷmore like hovering just under the shallow surface of the water) that he wanted to bump into Harry. It was his only chance, and he wanted to see him. Almost desperately wishing for the chance to fix things, to maybe get back even a smidgen of what they were.

He tries not to dwell on the feeling that something important has shifted between them, and instead attempts to focus very hard on the sun beating solidly onto his shoulder blades and on the back of his neckꟷa thick, pleasant heat that he zeros in on as his mind begins to stutter and short-circuit at an idea niggling at the back of it, persistent and sending alarms ringing off in every room of his brain:

Was Harry asking Louis if they could be in a  _relationship_?

Because if he was… well, shit. Hasn’t that been what Louis has really wanted all along?

He only stopped himself from thinking it all those years ago because he was never sure that that’s what Harry was looking for, confused about their extreme closeness. And especially not since that fateful Saturday night when everything started to go wrong between them.

All Louis remembers is spotting Harry finally turn up at their halls with something behind his back, and then Harry disappearing and returning empty-handed, reacting to Louis in a way Harry had only done for a millisecond when they first met and then never again. He was all tactile hands and unabashed smiles and relentless sass.

And then it all changed.

Obviously Louis knows now that Harry liked him and was convinced Louis didn’t return those feelings, which was what caused the widening distance between them, Louis oblivious to it all. 

But Louis did return them. Fuck, he absolutely did. If he’s being entirely honest with himself, Louis thought about being Harry’s boyfriend long before any of that. It was in the quiet hope that would hit him when Harry sought him out, the inexplicable warmth he felt under Harry’s possessive hands, the shiver he’d get from a touch, wild butterflies that would almost strangle the breath out of him whenever they’d curl up together to sleep, and the short, rare kisses they’d share that always took Louis by surprise. Most of all, though, it was in the irrevocably soft eyes Harry gave Louis as he clung to his wrist, or told a joke, or did something stupid.

Louis finds, passing a young family, bunched in carefree smiles and haphazardly sharing ice creams cones among them, that he has so much to say to Harry, suddenly aware of an acute ache in his chest that wasn’t there before.

He looks over at Harry, takes in the sharp line of his jaw, the light stubble that lines it, his shorter hair, highlighting his profile and making it seem harder than it once was, colouring over the soft, cherubic round cheeks that were there and blooming five years ago.

But with every second that passes, Harry’s loosening hold on his sweaty hand dampens his confidence to say them.

He can’t stop thinking about Harry wanting to be with Louis, and what that might mean. 

But now they're coming up to crunching gravel that lines the pathway to the hotel's entrance, and Louis reluctantly pushes the thoughts into a box for later as they draw nearer to commotion and parasols and distant laughter.

They make their way inside, past prying guests, careful to have already disentangled themselves, keeping a gap between them.

Though if Louis thought he and Harry would still carry on with their kissing fun like their candid exchange in the park never happened, well. Louis was sorely mistaken.

Because as soon as Harry steps out of the lift, he’s hastily walking to his own hotel room without another word, their ride up to their floor having exuded an extremely awkward and sombre atmosphere.

Harry had held his hand up until they’d arrived at the hotel (because you know, the fake exes thing is still a widely accepted thing amongst everyone else), so that was fine. Louis expected that. What he didn’t expect was for Harry to silently brush him off and leave Louis by his lonesome when they were getting along so well, and well… having such a good time together.

So, Louis panics, calls out to stop him, desperate to decipher some explanation in Harry’s now glum face. Because, you know, there’s no way he’s having this conversation  _now_. They have the rehearsal dinner in a couple of hours and Louis is not going to be responsible for a possible non-attendance from Harry if it goes sour.

“Harry, wait!”

Harry turns around immediately, which Louis is so grateful for, but his heart sinks when he doesn’t look any less blank.

Louis’ insides clench, ache for him, because he’s looking at Louis like… like he’s broken his heart, and no. Louis can’t have that.

“I’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner, then?” Louis forces a casual smile. Only thirty minutes or so ago, Louis really wouldn’t have minded spending the remaining wait thoroughly kissing every inch of Harry’s body as they lazed about before they got the motivation to get changed into something other than sweaty t-shirts and jeans.

It’s a far cry now. 

Harry nods, smiling faintly with his lips pressed together, already swivelling his body around to swipe his key card in the door.

“Hey," Louis says.

Harry pauses, flicking his gaze to him, a tense line between his brows. “Yeah?” he says softly.

“Are weꟷare we okay?” Louis hates to think that the progress they’ve made has been wiped completely now, and that they’re not even friends at the very least again. "You know, after our talk aboutꟷ"

“’Course,” Harry interrupts briskly. “Just need to shower and get ready, don't I.” He shoots him a smile, one that doesn’t even nearly reach his eyes.

“Okay. Yeah. Right. Me too.” Louis stares. Harry looks back.

Then the key is swiped and the door swings open. Louis watches Harry walk inside and close it behind him.

**

Harry trudges over to the bed and lets himself fall face first into it. (Much like other things recently.) With his cheek heavily pressed against the mattress and blood rushing to his face, he slides a half-hearted glance at the mess of clothes he's managed to make since his arrival.

“Fuck,” he says, muffled with a mouthful of bedsheets.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, limbs spread.

So, here Harry goes again, out here, making things difficult for himself. But he can safely say he won’t let it go as far as last time. He just needs a bit of a moment to mope and stare forlornly into space, catch up on his regular Longing Time, and then he’ll go to Louis and kiss him until his heart is content. Which it probably never will be, because even a dose of forever kissing Louis will never be quite enough, and dear god, someone save him from earthing up his degree in How To Stay Eternally Pitiful.

“Oh, snap out of it,” he tells himself as he gets up and plonks his bum on the floor, legs apart in a V shape, haphazardly sifting through the towering pile of clothes heaped inside his open suitcase (why the hell did he bring this much? How did this happen?) mindlessly, pausing on a jumper that he’s not sure is his when he's interrupted by buzzing in his back-jean pocket.

He pulls out his phone to see Gemma’s calling.

"What’s up?" Harry answers, holding the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he continues to frown at the very baggy Louis Vuitton sweater somehow in his suitcase, chest panging when he realises Louis must have thrown it there.

"Oh, so you  _can_  answer your phone. Amazing.”

"What's wrong?" he asks immediately. He's actually starting to develop a stomach ache from the stress of this ridiculous situation he’s in.

A long beat, then:

"I think you better come clean to mum and tell her you’ve been lying about Louis, okay? Like, as soon as. I've had enough of her whining in my ear about you two, plotting ways to get you ‘back together’, and my own husband even thinks there's something weird going on. Sam called Louis some choice things earlier and I had to refrain from throwing my carrot cake in his face. I _love_ carrot cake."

Harry frowns hard, chucking a silky crimson top onto the bed. "What?” he says, annoyed. “What kind of things?"

"Apparently, it's got around that Beth's cousin, Mal, might have slept with Louis at one point, and it seems it could overlap with the very vague timeline you gave everyone about your relationship length.” She huffs. “So now everyone’s gossiping about Louis possibly having cheated on you over pink gin and chocolate croissants. Well done, brother." He can practically hear her winking sarcastically, a sour look on her face.

For a split-second, Harry is struck with the urge to ‘accidently’ spill some wine over Beth’s dress. Oh, shit. That was awful. He didn’t mean it. But he kindaꟷ _no_ , no, he  _doesn’t_ mean it.

"For god's sake,” Harry grits instead. “Not this again.” He tips his head back and whimpers in frustration. He realises the air con hasn’t come on, so it’s starting to get particularly stuffy and hot and generally devoid of air. He’s _very_ irritated. “I'm starting to experience not very nice feelings towards the bride, Gemma. This is bad. I feel like an arsehole.”

“Well, you’re something, alright,” Gemma scoffs. Bit mean. True, though. “Who manages to make such a colossal mess out of lying about having a boyfriend?”

“But if she's spreading horrible rumours about Louisꟷ"

"I think it was Beth’s mum, not actually Beth. By the way, a heads up, this Mal everyone’s talking about seems to very popular amongst their side of their family. And he’s supposed to be attending the rehearsal dinner tonight if he gets here in time.”

Harry just about refrains from growling. He’s had a grudge against Beth’s mum all weekend after she insulted his blouse, and this is just so over the line that the line is no longer visible. This Mal character turning up as well is just the icing on top of a ridiculously crappy cake.

“This woman, Harry. It’s like she lives for unnecessary drama. Matt almost got slaughtered for having a picture with a female friend on Instagram, right? And Beth’s mum hit the roof. Started demanding he confess to cheating on her daughter!"

"Jesus. Way to jump to conclusions.” He tugs at his bottom lip. “What’s her name again?”

“Chastity.”

Harry bites down on an incoming snort. “Right.”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Remind me of your motive for this charade?”

Harry sighs, blowing air through his wet lips like a raspberry. “I don’t know anymore. It was such a stupid idea. It’s all Niall’s fault really,” he pouts. It’s not. It’s all his own. But it makes Harry feel a tiny bit better that the seed was in fact not planted himself. (Let him have this.)

He doesn’t even care about silly jibes and judgemental questions about his life and career prospects anymore. All he cares about is holding onto Louis, in whatever form Louis allows that to take.

Because he’s in stupid, miserable love.

"Right. Well, you might want to admit this is all a farce before Louis' reputation around here is completely tarnished, eh? What if you do end up together for real? You’re making a right mess. A completely pointless, ludicrous mess, even for you. He's doing you a favour, H. Don't let his old friends and our family think he's a cheat. Louis doesn’t deserve that.”

Something in Harry’s snaps.

"Of course not! I'm not gonna just let people think that! I would _never_ ," he insists, frustration ebbing all the stronger because he's such a fucking idiot for doing this in the first place, for asking Louis to go along with it. He’s sure things would have been just as effective if they’d met up here for the first time anyway. Maybe even more dramatic because they’re drama queens like that.

Feeling sorry for himself isn’t an option though. He’s got to set everyone straight because this is getting far more serious than it was supposed to be. People are believing Louis is capable of such things and Harry is not fucking having that.

"Okay, I know," Gemma tells him gently and _god_ , Harry feels so guilty. About everything. Why does he make things so hard for himself? He's such a disaster of a person. “It’s just, well, mum might have heard some things now, too and she’s… worried.”

 _Oh, fuck._ That’s all Harry needs on top of everything else. His mum thinking the worst.

"No, I know. I’m sorry. I didn't mean to snap," he says softly, tugging on the hem of his rumpled t-shirt, thumbing at a worsening hole in the fabric. "I'll…” he sighs. “I’ll tell everyone later? When the dinner’s nearly over. During the buffet, or something, and then hope I don't get a load of finger food thrown at my head. If I get a crab cake in my hair or an egg roll, I’ll lose my shit.”

Gemma chuckles. "It'll be  _fine_. Sure, they'll call you a first-class idiot and wonder if you were dropped on your head as a child or if this is self-inflicted stupidity as an adult, but we're your family. We'll laugh about it and use it as an inside joke for the next few Christmases at least, that's all."

Harry groans, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. "How am I even a functioning human, Gemma? I'm surprised I made it alive this long."

“It’s a miracle to us all.”

Harry rolls his eyes and flops onto his side, resting his head over the suitcase of clothes.

"Nah, you're alright," Gemma drawls, a grin in his sister’s voice. "Completely ridiculous, and I fear for your health sometimes, but you're not that bad. Just need a bit of help."

"Cheers," Harry retorts dryly.

"And I'm sure Louis agrees.” Gemma’s tone is knowing. 

"Yeah, that doesn't really matter now." He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the shirt he's laid out, unconsciously having picked it because Louis told him he looked nice in it earlier. Harry shakes his head at himself. The mirror is opposite, and Harry catches a glimpse of the sour look on his face, his mouth downturned in a miserable pout.

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?” she says impatiently. "You are such hard work. Always getting bogged down in the negative."

Harry sighs heavily.

“You want to marry Louis and have lots of babies with him and do the whole nine yards." He can hear the confusion in her voice. She says it like it's the most obvious, right thing in the world: Harry and Louis, together, a family, and that nothing else to the contrary makes sense, that the idea of it not happening is unfathomable to her.

Harry sort of really wants to cry, a thick lump clogging his throat.

“Have you changed your mind about all that?” she asks, unconvinced.

“No,” Harry says instantly. “I want that. Someday. I _really_ want that. But.”

“But what?”

"I’m not sure that’s what Louis wants right now.”

“It’s like you want to get married tomorrow?” she scoffs. “You haven’t even tried dating yet.”

“I know but, like… Louis’ a busy man. He’s got a lot of exciting stuff coming up with his job. He's gonna be away for like, the next two months, or something like that, and even after that as well, he's gonna be travelling so much, and I'll never see him, Gem. It's not gonna work, is it? It’s not practical to get into something serious with him. And he didn't like... well, heꟷ Basically he told me that it's not on the table. That he won't get to see me much at all. And it's. Well. That's it, isn’t it? That's life, really,” he mutters miserably, even when everything in his body, every nerve and valve and cell is telling him to get a grip and go get his boy.

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening, and he's kind of scared of his sister sometimes.

This is definitely one of those times.

"Are you an utter moron? Or have you just suffered a knock to the head recently?" He can hear her scowl from here. He has actually, but he doesn’t mention that little car accident last week.

"What?" he shrieks, defensive. 

"Just because it might be long-distance for a while doesn't mean you can't maintain a healthy, committed, happy relationship, Harry," she informs him sternly. "I do it. Sam and I. He has to travel a lot for work, too. But we deal with our lot like adults in relationships do, and if you really, truly love someone, you'll move heaven and earth to make it work in any way you can. Don't be thick, Harry. It doesn't suit you. Now get your fucking act together and tell him so.”

Well, fuck. That's him told.

"Shit, Gemma. I know all that, but...I'm so scared I'm gonna screw this up, that we’ll drift apart again orꟷ"

"How on earth do you reckon you’ll manage that?"

“Because I'm really fucking in love with him, for starters. And we’ve seen my track record with that: I fall in love with Louis and then never speak to him again."

"And?"

"And?" Harry repeats.

"He feels the same, you silly twat."

"Hey, no need for that," he pouts.

"You deserve it."

"Gemma," he starts, getting slightly annoyed now. "Louis' not in love with me. He's not there yet. That's a problem, okay? Because I love him, and we're not in the same place." He refrains from whimpering.

"How do you know that, though? Is that what Louis told you? Did he actually say a serious relationship is off the table?" Gemma says, her tone calmer, maybe a bit apprehensive. 

"Not in so many words, but it was strongly implied.”

"So you don’t actually know,” Gemma deadpans.

"No, I don't know for sure! It's just a gut feeling that a long-term thing isn’t what he’s after right now. I think he’d be okay with a friends-with-benefits-type thing, but I don’t want that. I want all of him and I've been burned before."

Sure, it's been a peachy, fun couple of days, but god, he can't just go waltzing over to Louis with an intense love that he's held onto for eight bloody years and blindside him like that. The last thing he wants to do is scare Louis away. As if somehow able to read Harry's thoughts, Gemma speaks up to ease his mind.

"You're not going to scare him away, Harry. Louis is probably thinking the same of you right now.”

“You reckon?”

“I guarantee it.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, even know she can’t see it.

“Bold of me, I _know_ ,” she freakily continues, like her eyeballs can see through the phone, “but I’m extremely confident in my intuition, Harry. And no offense, but I wouldn't trust your gut instincts too much. Especially with your overthinking.”

“What do you mean?” he protests.

“Remember when you reckoned Timmy the Hamster had died?” Harry juts his lip out. “And we got a shoe-box ready to bury him in and everything, only to find the poor thing was still breathing?" This is a low blow. Harry was six.

“I still maintain that hamster _was_ dead at the time,” he sniffs.

" _Anyway_ ,” Gemma drawls. “Just talk it out with him. You might be surprised by what he says? Or better yet, turn up at the airport with a bunch of flowers and declare your love at the last minute.” Her tone is smug.

It was a conversation they’d had years ago about what lengths Harry would go to to fight for Louis. It was during a second viewing in a row of _My Best Friend’s Wedding_ and involved a large quantity of cheap wine.

“I think I’ll pass.” A pause. “But. Yeah," Harry replies softly, taking another glance at the crimson shirt he's laid out. "Okay. Okay, I'llꟷI’ll do that."

**

_Harry only wraps up the gift after double, then triple checking that his note is carefully tucked inside the sleeve. He stares at it with a happy sigh, belly filled with nervous fluttering, his fingertips clammy where they stick to the paper._

_(He decides against a bunch of red balloons as well, because come on. He’d be literally begging Louis to run a mile if he did that to him in the middle of an over-crowded party.)_

_His whole body is thrumming vigorously with adrenaline and nerves and he’s right on the edge of throwing up all over his Vans at this point. Going back and forth with what he’s about to do, his heart threatening to exit his body in the most gruesome way. (He has a wild, dramatic imagination. Particularly under stress.)_

_Because what he’s about to tell Louisꟷit’s possibly, terrifyingly, about to change everything about them._

_Or will it? It shouldn’t right? They’ll be the same._

_(Except hopefully there’ll be some kissing and sex involved.)_

_He’s hoping that won’t be the case, though. That their dynamics won't change too much, that is._

_Ideal scenario: Louis snogs his face off as soon as Harry hands him his Valentine’s gift and goes right ahead and announces they’re boyfriends to grossed-out laughter and playful jibes from their mates, and Harry can rest a happy, happy man._

_But, you know. Hope is a dangerous thing._

_Too bad Harry never gets the memo to keep his cards close to his chest._

_He’d chosen the lyrics hoping Louis would remember that freezing January night in Louis’ car after they’d broken down on a country lane in the middle of nowhere, bickering for an hour before they settled, managing to get some signal and call the AA, and because the radio was the only thing working, they’d listened to what was playing until they were finally picked up, huddling together for warmth (yeah, right). Harry was in Louis’ lap as they squeezed each other tight and told the most random, silliest stories to each other in an effort to stop their teeth from chattering enough to make them laugh instead and keep their minds off the cold._

_And then one song came on the radio that spoke to Harry as Louis sat slumped in the driver’s seat, dozing off with Harry’s head resting against his chest, and he’s never forgotten the way it felt to listen to its soothing melody, to the words sinking into his cells, holding on tight to the boy whose arms were around him, rubbing lines up and down his back almost subconsciously._

_Harry’s known he’s had a crush on Louis since the start of their friendship, but figuring out it's love... Well, that's a big thing for someone his age, right? A huge realisation that he had no idea how to react to at first._

_(Hence his stress-induced marathon of every love song from the sixties and seventies. Elvis, The Beach Boys, Fleetwood Mac, etc. Then he got so panicked, he moved onto the eighties and started listening to goddamn Rick Astley on repeat, sloshed on Absolute vodka and cokes in just his pants, stupidly contemplating revealing his feelings to Louis with a tattoo.)_

_Harry is in love with Louis and it's scary and exciting as hell._

_Though, hopefully Louis won’t think he’s a complete cheeseball when he sees what exactly the record is, but Harry is willing to take on a large amount of ribbing, if it means he gets to receive the knowledge that he gets to keep Louis, in every way._

_He puts on a simple black shirt, buttons indecently undone to his nips, and fully prepared to do some over-the-top, Valentine’s Day romantic seducing._

_The music is reverberating against the walls, drinks in hands everywhere he looks, the bodies cramped and squashed together, lighting dim. Pink and red balloons are hung precariously in the corners of the ceiling and Harry can’t see Louis anywhere._

_After what seems like an annoyingly long time of pushing his way through people snogging and groping obscenely, he spots Louis leaning against the wall in the kitchen and his stomach swoops intensely._

_Louis’ hair is a gorgeous mess and his chest is being hugged by a fitted red t-shirt and he looks a little sweaty from the way his fringe is curling to the side, animated and engaged in conversation, and Harry loves every bit of him._

_He steps up to Louis, heart somewhere in his throat, fully prepared to tell him through a gesture, to show Louis how much he really means to him, in_ that _way, when another boy gets there first._

_This boy leans in to Louis almost instantly, and kisses him. Kisses him! Fucking right here, on the mouth, in the middle of this manic shambles of a Valentine’s party, handing him a bottle of beer._

_Harry lets the bottle he’s got in his own hand for Louis fall limply between his fingers by his side._

_Louis smiles, wide and blue and crinkly-eyed, at the unknown boy, and Harry swears he can feel his heart snap right here and now, splintering his chest with such force that Harry almost drops the bottle to the floor._

_Harry whips the gift out of sight in his other hand, trying to hide it before his whole chest convulses so hard that it splatters out of his body and onto the floor._

_A boy is kissing Louis. And that boy isn’t Harry._

_And Harry might throw up._

_God. He’s an idiot. Of course Louis wouldn’t feel the same, not like that. He’s had every chance to ask what Harry was doing whenever he’d randomly, stupidly, carelessly kissed him (Harry just couldn’t help it. He acts before he thinks), but he didn’t. Louis indulges him because he’s his friend. Shit. Maybe it actually really bothered him? And… fuck. Harry’s been such a twat._

_He feels sick at the thought of Louis not being able to tell him to back off. What if he minds that Harry is so tactile with him? Oh, god. Oh, shit. Oh_ _─_

_“Harry!”_

_Harry watches as the boy’s gaze follows Louis’ own and lands on Harry, accessing him with his eyes like a snake deciding if he’s worth the aggro of pulling Louis away with him. But Louis walks over to Harry and hooks a hand around his wrist. Like normal. Like Harry’s whole body isn’t breaking._

_“Come on, Haz. Been waiting ages for you to get here.” Louis pouts. He's gorgeous. Just the cutest with his sweaty fringe in his eyes, his cheeks flushed, hand already curling to reach for Harry's sleeve._

_He freezes for a moment before he splutters out a stilted, “Oh. 'M sorry, Lou.”_

_Louis laughs, bright and oblivious. “Suppose you're forgiven. But you’ve got to be my wing-man.” He winks, gratefully accepting the beer bottle in Harry’s other hand. “_ _What’s that?” Louis then points to the gift bag hanging limply behind Harry’s back. His fingers grip the string tighter._

_“Nothing. Uh. Holding it for somebody, that’s all.”_

_Louis eyes him dubiously before his lovely face splits into a grin. “Yeah, alright. ‘Someone’,” he gestures sarcastically, smirking._

_Harry’s stomach churns at Louis’ complete lack of jealousy of any kind at the implication he’s bought a Valentine’s thing for some other guy._

_Louis’ acting like everything is fine._

_Harry isn’t fine._

_Everything feels wrong, like Harry's world has suddenly, harshly been turned on its axis disjointedly, and he doesn’t know how he's going to move past this, pretend like everything is normal and fine, and especially not with Louis calling out his name impatiently over the noise, music and general drunkenness of the crowd of sweaty, hairspray-saturated students._

_But he smiles anyway, as convincingly as he can, planning on bailing as soon as the opportunity arises, but not before he dumps the gift bag in his room and hides it under his clothes, walking dejectedly back into the party and ignoring the urge to hold Louis' hand._

**

Yeah, no. Things aren’t okay. They're not okay.

Anne has been shooting odd glances his way all evening, sometimes not even paying attention to the rehearsed speeches going on before they all tuck into their lemon and peach sorbets. Louis slurped on his with the distinct feeling that Harry's mother was trying to decide something, and Louis really isn't certain whether it's good or bad. 

Either way, Louis is kind of over this pretending game. Three days and it's already enough. God, he can't wait for the stag night. He's also dreading the stag night. Just how awkward is it going to be? And with alcohol involved? That is not a good combination.

Half of him wants to pull Harry aside for some heavy kissing outside in the gardens, and another wants to end this... _thing_ between them. Another two days is only going to make things worse, right?

And going by the permanent sad tilt to Harry’s forced smiles this evening, it’s not looking great. Maybe Harry's thinking exactly the same as Louis, and is trying to work up the courage to end this liaison before it goes any further. It gnaws at Louis, makes his fingers itch, his leg bounce under the table.

There’s a sharp pounding in Louis’ temples and everything is terrible, his mood well and truly squashed now that he can’t stop thinking about Harry being honest about how he feels, about missing Louis, about wanting to spend time with him, wanting to  _date_  him, and it’s triggered an avalanche of contradictory emotions that Louis really does not have the time, energy or emotional capacity to sift through right now.

This bottle of wine at the table, though? Yes. Louis will have three. Please and thanks. Pour it all. He needs all the liquid luck he can get if he’s gonna get through these last two days.

He finds Harry’s eyes darting guiltily over to him and away again, his mum saying something to him that makes Harry look down.

Louis sighs. 

Whatever _thing_ they want to start, it’s so much easier without an extra load of emotional baggage. These new developments in their relationship are already making Louis’ chest ache at the thought of not seeing Harry much again. The affection, their teasing, their cuddles, the way they can talk as they laze in bed, just the fact they’re near each other, sharing space, being all they need.

God. Imagine if Louis was in love with him? Fuck. It would be absolute _torture_.

Oh, no. Oh fuck.

**

It’s the day of the Stag night, and Harry still hasn’t come clean about not being Louis' ex-boyfriend to his family. Officially, anyway. 

There just wasn’t an opportunity to get up and say it. And the idea of tapping a glass with a spoon and face Beth's parents' wrath for making a scene warned him off. He tried to start telling his mum the truth, but he only ended up passionately insisting what a wonderful, loyal, kind person Louis is and that whatever she’s heard about him couldn’t be further from the truth.

“You could have come to me, sweetheart. I don’t understand why you felt the need to keep Louis a secret from me,” she’d said sadly, crushing Harry in a hug and promising things would turn out okay, that maybe Louis and he could work it out eventually. 

It hit a little too close to Harry's actual feelings so all he could manage were some forlorn looks Louis’ way from across the room and a nod in agreement.

"Just, please, mum. If you hear anything nasty being said about Lou, you'll correct them, won’t you? Louis would never do that to me and I can't have people thinking he would."

"Of course I will," his mum replied firmly. "He’s such a sweet boy and I've always thought so."

Harry gave her a watery smile, guilt gnawing at his insides as she gazed with sympathy back at him, her hand gently stroking his hair.

Now Harry is making his way to the tables outside, ignoring another text from Louis, a guilty knot tying itself around his stomach over avoiding him since they got back to the hotel yesterday evening (and all of last night), but Harry needed a pause. He needed to remember than he is capable of breathing and existing without Louis next to him for more than a few hours, for god’s sake. He’s done it before and he can do it again, only this time he’ll get to at least stay in touch with Louis. If they actually follow through this time.

There’s also the tiny detail of receiving a very surprising email this afternoon, pressing on Harry’s mind, regarding a job he’d applied for months ago, asking about a good time to call him over the weekend. In all honesty, Harry’d completely forgotten about it. Sure that because he hasn’t heard back in so long, that the position had been filled and that was that.

He’s too scared to open it just yet. Scared of the inevitable rejection it probably still is, or even if it turns out he’s actually got an interview or something. Because the location... It’s all kinds of scary, good and bad.

Harry’s such a mess lately, what with his crippling self-doubt and lack of self-esteem, and trying to not walk into oncoming traffic. You know, the usual existential crisis criteria. So, to say he’s not fully equipped for what it could entail is a bit of an understatement.

He’s got himself into a state, is what he’s done.

“So, how’s the ridiculous façade going, my dear Harold?” comes Niall’s voice out of the shadows (quite literally, he jumps out at him from behind the bathroom door) as Harry makes to step outside.

“Shit, Niall!” Harry hisses, hands raised above him as he crouches down.

“Jesus, you are so easy to startle,” he laughs, slapping his thigh. “That was a reaction and a half! What’s got you so skittish?”

"Ugh. So much, Ni."

It’s not long now until six, which is when the stag is supposed to get going. Harry was planning on disappearing again to drag Louis away to continue what they started earlier, instead of keeping up this radio silence and this back and forth dance between them.

And yes. Hoping to use sex as a way of diffusing the tension that’s settled between them again. He knows Louis is on edge by the way his jaw has been set the whole time he’s seen him, knocking back glass after glass of wine. He must be wasted by now.

Harry really hopes he’s not the whole cause of it.

“Hang on, ‘ridiculous façade’? This was your idea,” he says, a deep frown denting his forehead. “I wish I’d never listened to you,” he mumbles, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Yeah, alright." Niall frowns. "When I thought you wanted to move on and not fall back in love with Lou all over again. I know what you were doing when I dropped by. The door is paper thin, mate.”

Harry makes a disgruntled face, then sighs heavily. “Fuck.”

“Oh, yeah, I _know_ ,” Niall nods, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “I was about to bolt but then I thought, nah. Why let them have all the fun when I’m miserable?” he grins.

“You’re a bad man.”

Niall laughs raucously before his face is deadpan once more. He’s pretty terrifying at times. Once they were all playing a drunken game using electrocuting pants for some stupid reason. Niall was in control of the remote and laughed like a fucking maniac while everyone screeched in pain. He’s a barbarian.

“So, where is lover boy, then?” Niall scans the area, hands in his pockets, white shirt billowing in the faint breeze. “Sorted things out, have you? Good,” he says before Harry can start ranting otherwise, “because I’m fucking glad. And why haven’t you been updating me? This was my bright idea.”

“Bright idea? This was such a stupid idea, Niall,” Harry hisses.

Niall frowns, then shakes his head, grinning. “Why? Realised something, have you?”

“You made everything worse! Everything’s… worse.”

“How so?”

“Let’s see, shall we? Apart from half the guest list gossiping about our ‘relationship’ in a way I did not want, proving I shouldn’t have bothered with this in the first place and just sucked it up, the other half think we ended on such bad terms that Louis slept with someone else.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up and he starts to bite on his blunt fingernails. “Shit. That’s bad,” he mutters.

“Yeah, so not only has it backfired spectacularly, worrying even my mum, Louis’ only sticking around until the ceremony is done and then has to go home to pack for a flight on Monday to Milan for work, and oh! While spending most of my time with Louis and kissing him and generally drinking in his perfect existence, I’m surer than ever how I feel about him, but it’s… complicated. Trying to do something about that. And yeah. I just want to sleep and take Louis with me. Oh. I might have a job offer, but I’m not sure. I haven’t called them back yet. So, yeah. Shambles." Harry spreads his arms, letting them fall and slaps his hands against his thighs.

He waits for Niall to speak, to say something, anything that’s going to help Harry calm down and get him out of this mess.

“Let’s get you drunk as soon as, yeah, mate?” Niall puts his arm around Harry’s waist and leads him to the lounge. There's a few familiar faces around but Harry doesn’t have the energy not to follow or slather on a fake smile.

"I shouldn't really. Not when we have the stag later. But I'm actually really glad you're here," Harry whispers tiredly, resting his head in the crook of Niall's neck.

"'S'okay. Niall’s here to distract you, petal." He pecks a kiss to Harry's head. "Tell me everything, yeah?"

Half an hour later and Harry is practically slumped on Niall's lap in the corner of the bar, sat with him on one of the cushioned sofas, the lighting dim over here, which matches his mood precisely. 

After Harry's rambled some more about possibly starting a relationship with Louis, and all the reasons why he's so wonderful, Niall finally speaks. "So, you know how I asked you if you were still in love with Louis and you didn't know?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's safe to say you know the answer to that now, yeah? I can see there's definitely no more denial on that part."

“Louisꟷhe’sꟷ” Harry exhales, slumping further into Niall's side while he sips on his beer. It's a comforting smell almost. It reminds him of the times Harry was feeling rubbish and Niall offered up his place to crash for a bit. And maybe for a cuddle. “He scares the hell out of me sometimes. And he can drive me crazy. He’s just the mostꟷugh, the most stubborn, determined person I’ve ever met, but at the same time I’veꟷI’ve never felt calmer or safer or more comfortable with anybody else."

Niall scoffs. "Well, thanks."

Harry chuckles. "You know what I mean. Romantically, too."

"Well, if it's romance you're after." Niall holds out his arms with his pint in his hand. 

Harry huffs another laugh. "No, but like. Louis is. He’s soft. Like, he’s warm, and so smart, and loving, and funny, and he sort of knows just how to, like, quieten my mind down, you know? I think way too much about things, but he only has to hold me and I just… relax. My brain shuts off and I can just… listen to him? Like, to his voice, the way he talks. And he just knows, and he makes me sort of... quiet, I guess? Yeah. He makes me quiet. He lets me breathe for once. Even if it's only for a little while, it's all good. Well. That's how it used to be, anyway. Then everything got... well, not good."

Several seconds pass. It makes Harry look up because Niall is never this quiet himself.

He’s staring down at Harry, almost awed, a dent between his light brows.

“Uh, Niall? Are you okay?”

He takes a large gulp of his pint.

“No, I just. I mean. Wow. Shit, I’ve just never been so close to a real-life person who’s so properly, fucking _in love_ , you know? Was starting to think it was a myth, to be honest.”

Harry frowns. “What? I’m not a zoo animal, you know.” He laughs.

“No, I know, I just. You’re properly in love, mate.” He slumps back in his seat. “I need to get some of that.”

“Love isn’t a drug you can get hold of easily either,” Harry snorts.

“Well, whatever it is, I want that.”

Harry smiles.

**

“Alright, guys! Pipe down a sec, and then go wild,” announces Roman, blonde hair in a quiff and wearing a ripped black leather jacket that's two sizes too big. He's one of Harry and Louis’ (and of course Matty’s) friends from uni. A very responsible, good-natured, absolute riot. They’re in a bar a little way down the road from the hotel which is all slick black seating and impressive, modern lighting, the music loud and current and beating in time with the brightly flashing neon lights.

A crowd of the guys gather to order drinks, all smiles and teeth and raring to go.

“Drinks are on the groom here,” Roman calls, Matty jokingly protesting as a tab is put down by another guy, “so drink as much as your stomachs can squeeze in but please, stop short of turning it into a ‘stomach needs pumping’ situation, because the wedding starts at midday tomorrow and I can’t guarantee it’ll be patched up in time.”

“We aren’t going that wild,” Matty says, frowning but with a grin still stretching his face.

“Yeah? Well, not with my blood likely being 99.9% tequila already, no.”

Everyone laughs, dressed in t-shirts with Matty and Beth’s faces on, the night only just starting.

Thankfully there’s been no sign of Mal just yet, (thank god) but Harry is so far away from Louis, too far, having left Niall with Louis, and now sticking to Roman and Ed’s sides like glue.

And Louis is miserable.

Because things with Harry are now nothing short of dire in comparison to yesterday morning’s activities, and in some ways, it’s worse than before. Especially when Harry hasn’t replied to the eight text messages he’s sent him today, or won’t even properly look in Louis’ direction, cheeks flooding with red as he awkwardly shoots him the odd tiny smile without eye-contact and ducks away, and Louis doesn’t  _understand._

He  _does_  understand that Harry is upset at the idea that they’ll be seeing each other a lot less after the wedding, after these couple of weeks of getting to know each other again.

And it’s just typical, because Louis has gotten the two things he’s wanted for so long. A fantastic new headway in his career, and Harry.

He’s made up with Harry, gets to be with Harry, gets to kiss Harry, and other such things.

But. And there’s always a but. Louis will be busy, right? Too all over the place to hold down a relationship andꟷ whoa. Did he say  _relationship_? No. this isn’t that. It’s… what is this exactly? Frolicking about? Yeah. That’s what it is. Right? He’s kind of seeing Harry. Well. Not really, but he wants to be, and Harry has made it clear as day that dating is what he wants too.

(He's right on the edge of admitting something _big_ to himself. But his gut is telling him to pause it for a bit longer.)

(His new love interest is whatever is in this new drink Niall has passed him.)

(Mmm. Fruity.)

So he would have at least thought Harry would suggest they make sure they at least  _try_  and stay in touch considering the last few days? He can’t say it didn’t smart when Harry just agreed and didn’t press further. Argue a bit, perhaps. (Not that he wants to argue anymore with Harry than they have already.)

Surely seeing one another sometimes is better than nothing, though? But then… maybe that isn’t enough for Harry? Maybe he’s all or nothing. It certainly fits the type of person Harry is. He gives his all when he really wants something. But in this case, he’s not. He's avoiding Louis. So maybe Louis isn’t what he wants, not really. Maybe it's too much hassle to keep up with. And, god, Louis is feeling sorry for himself.

It’s just all a mess of presumptuous, conclusion-jumping scenarios in Louis’ head.

Which is why Louis’ currently sitting on the far corner of the bar, the music thumping around him, neon lights flashing repeatedly while everyone else has fun, slumped with his chin in his palm over the sleek counter, on his third top-up of whiskey. Whose idea was that choice of drink? That would be the Irish one’s. He’s missed Niall. It’s only as he’s been non-stop jabbering away in a language Louis can’t comprehend (and can barely hear) that he’s realised just how much. He wishes he’d been a better friend and made time for him, even if he was on a whirlwind ride.

He sits upright and swings an arm around Niall as he barrels forwards, hears Niall's abrupt laugh as he catches him against his chest.

“Lou! Watch it!” Niall roars, shirt almost all the way undone, sloppily pulling Louis closer despite demanding the opposite with a manic grin on his flushed, slightly sunburnt face. “Stop trying to grope me!”

"Please! I am a gentleman. There are better ways to woo a potential lover, _Neil_."

Niall slams his drink down. "What was that?"

Louis laughs and makes a show of attempting to grab his bum. Niall, who’s drunk out of his mind at this point, and charming all the bartenders at the same time, suddenly hauls Louis in by the collar and plants a smacking kiss to Louis’ agape mouth. Niall smothers his wet face (who knows what that is. Sweat, spit, alcohol? All of the above?) all over Louis' and Louis instinctively ducks and grins into his neck, which is when his eyes snag on Harry, who's staring at the two of them with wide eyes from across the room, standing still amongst the crowded, rowdy tables with two glasses of something in his hands.

And. Oh. Now he’s leaving. He's putting the glasses back onto a table and is stalking away, his back to Louis, and Jesus, he can’t be mad about this surely? He can’t actually be mad that Niall drunkenly (and most sloppily) swapped his spit with his, right? Because that was no kiss. That was definitely not a kiss.

“Hey!” Niall says, disgruntled. “I’m a fucking amazing kisser, you twat."

Oops. He must have said that last bit out loud.

“I wasn’t even trying there.” Niall wrinkles his nose, squaring his shoulders, and then leans in closer. “Come ‘ere.”

“No, Niall!” Louis laughs. “Harry saw us!”

“Oh,” Niall scoffs. “He’s havin’ a laugh if he’s actually angry with you. It's only me, for Christ’s sake. He knows I’m just playin’. And you’re hot as. Forgive me for being human."

Louis rolls his eyes but smirks.

"I have to go check on him, anyway. We need to talk, and he's avoiding me."

"Yeah. You do that,” Niall says, pointing a finger at him accusingly, a suddenly serious look on his face. Louis’ face twitches in a frown before Niall pats him on the back and then Louis’ hurrying to catch up with Harry now leaving the bar, walking in superhuman long strides with those gangly legs of his.

He makes it through the doors and then he’s shouting Harry’s name who’s speed-walking down the road, and here’s Louis, practically running after his lover like’s he’s in a rom-com. The air is thick with humidity, the grapefruit-tinted skies behind them making everything feel like a movie, stirring a romanticism in Louis that usually ends up being his downfall.

Not this time.

By the time he catches up, Harry’s already leaning against a wall beside the hotel entrance, the artificial light from the building pouring out onto the pavement, mixing with the sunset and illuminating Harry’s creamy complexion, highlighting the green of his irises until Louis’ breath almost catches. Yeah. That’s a real thing apparently. Louis manages to experience every cliché trope he’s read about when he’s with Harry.

And he’s got this adorable little dent between his eyes and Louis can’t stop himself from smiling giddily, alcohol sloshing around his blood and a high percentage of all things _Harry_ sunken beneath his skin.

“I wasn’t expecting this.” Louis laughs, full and heartily, clutching at his stomach as he shakes. The air feels humid, thick and dizzy with something indefinable. Whatever it is, Louis wants more of it.

Harry, though, is looking at him like he’s just announced he’s taking up golf.

“I mean, when I received the invite, the last thing I expected to happen was you. You know. This.” He flicks a finger between them. “Us.” Louis toes at the ground, scraping his sole across it uselessly. “I thought that ship had long since sailed.” He pauses, flicking his gaze downward. "I'm glad we got to do this," he says quietly, just in case he's making an idiot of himself.

When Harry still doesn’t answer, only watching Louis with wide, concentrated eyes, Louis takes a step toward him, intent on closing the distance.

“Niall and I wereꟷwe were just messing around,” he babbles through a lidded grin. “You know? It’s only Niall, Haz.” Because he feels the need to clarify.

“I do know that,” Harry replies, his heart-shaped lips quirking in the corners. God, they really are shaped like a heart. _A heart_. Harry’s lips are the shape of a fucking heart. They’re gorgeous and pink and full and Louis can’t stop looking.

There’s no one like him. No one. 

Louis nods. "I mean, obviously. It's Niall," he huffs with a smile.

His eyes are so very green in the warm light and Louis is helpless to not take another step closer.

Harry watches the movement, his eyes stuck on Louis’ every twitch, and so Louis takes another, his stuttering heart following his steps. Another, and another, until his hand is sneaking behind Harry’s neck, smooth and a little warm; he misses the long curls that used to fall over his nape, but just his palm touching Harry like this, pressed to his skin, it sends tingles and sparks shooting through his veins.

“I like you, Harry,” he whispers. A pause and a swallow. “I really, reallyꟷ I think we could be something,” he mumbles mindlessly. “Something really… wonderful.”

He shivers as Harry’s mouth parts to release a slow, shaky exhale, his breath infused with the sweetness of champagne, a hint of mint in there too, probably from the gum he’s constantly chewing. It’s a habit that annoys the hell out of Louis.

And he likes him so much. Is it possible to like somebody this fucking much? Or in Louis’ case, is it only ever green-eyed boys named Harry?

All he knows for sure is that he’s always going to feel this way. He just knows it, feels it right down to his core and all the way to his tingling toes. So why bother trying to ignore it? Denying how he feels about Harry only makes It worse, so Louis figuresꟷthis time, at leastꟷhe might as well just listen to what his heart is telling him.

Bearing in mind that Louis is also very drunk.

Harry’s teeth sink into his bottom lip, eyeing Louis dazedly, flitting to his lips to his eyes to his lips again.

Louis would very much like him to hurry up and kiss him, for god’s sake.

“Louisꟷ”

“Do you want to come up?” he blurts out, the humidity clouding his head. The sky is a stark blood orange now.

And he just. _Needs._ He needs to touch warm, sticky skin. Harry’s skin. Feel it under his palms, under his mouth. Smother himself in it until he forgets where their bodies end and begin. All that clichéd stuff. That stuff that Louis absolutely loves.

And from the look Harry is giving him now. He _wants_ , too. "Haz," he whispers.

Harry’s hands are suddenly at Louis’ waist, gripping at his hips, his soft puffs of breath caress Louis’ chin, only half-aware of a group of tipsy guests stumbling past them as they exit the hotel, and Louis is dangerously close to dropping to his knees right here on the cement patio, unable to focus on anything but the magnetic heat radiating off of Harry’s body as they inch nearer.

Their noses brush, sort of nuzzling lazily, mouths open and searching languidly, breathing harder the longer they stay suspended in each other’s space, hazy and dreamlike, and saturated in a desire to be as close as possible.

Then he realises Harry still hasn’t answered, but as if he’s reading his thoughts, Harry exhales a soft, delicious _yes_.

**

To Harry’s torn dismay, there’s no frantic kissing happening in the lift to their floor. His mouth is dry, and when they finally get inside Harry’ room, Louis stays suspiciously silent. It only serves to worsen Harry’s nerves on their meter that’s on its last legs, so he decides fiddling with his rings is the best way to calm his jackrabbiting, weakening heart, almost painfully thudding against his ribs, his chin tilted down to the floor in a half pout.

Doubt burrows itself steadfastly into his veins as Louis dazedly sways around the room, not looking at him.

“So, um,” is Harry’s starting eloquent sentence. Was he really that convinced something would happen up here? Maybe Louis just wants to talk? Maybe he's so drunk he's forgotten they almost kissed down there. That he was rambling about them being something great. It wouldn't be the first time.

He clears his throat, panic rising quickly.

“I’ve been thinking… and maybe we should just. Leave it like it is, yeah?” He smiles thinly, forcing his eyes to disguise his devastation. He’ll cry after Louis leaves, but not a second before. He does have some dignity. “Let's not ruin it. Because, Lou, this has been soꟷ”

Before Harry can finish telling Louis that these past few days have meant the world to him, and that he’ll always cherish them or some silly shit, Louis launches himself at him and plants his hands on either side of Harry’s face, pulling him into a fierce kiss. His lips mesh with Harry’s hotly, and Harry is startled into action as Louis’ tongue slips inside, stealing the breath from Harry’s shell-shocked lungs.

“Wait,” Harry mumbles, hands still pulling Louis closer. “Whatꟷ”

“Just… let me,” Louis breathes, holding Harry’s gaze. “Please?”

“Yeah. Okay,” Harry nods and then Louis kisses him again.

And again, and again, barely letting Harry take a breath and all Harry can do is try to keep up, his knees wobbly where they stand, hands scrambling for purchase around Louis’ back.

Louis bites a mark into Harry’s neck, prompting Harry to roll his head back like the strings have been cut from a ragdoll. He grips at Louis’ lapels and tugs him so that they’re pressed up against each other, eager to take as much as he can from what Louis is so willing to give. Right now, in this moment, suspended between awake and the edge of desire, belly fluttering wildly.

And so that’s what he does.

“Do you want toꟷ um?” Harry asks, nosing at Louis’ cheek, short pants disturbing the long tresses of Louis’ fringe that have deflated across his forehead.

“Oh, hell yes,” is Louis’ gravelly reply. He bites Harry’s jaw in a grin as his hands reach down to tug at Harry’s zip on his trousers, seemingly delightfully pleased when he looks up as Harry releases a deep groan.

"Wait," he pulls back suddenly. "You're not, like, really drunk, are you?"

"Honestly, I've never felt more sober," Louis breathes, eyes drinking Harry in so hungrily, he may as well be undressing him with his eyes alone.

Harry hauls him into another hard kiss.

"Get on the bed," Louis instructs. His breath catches and Harry moans.

“Fuck, Lou. You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this." His limbs are tingling all the way to his toes as he falls backwards onto the mattress. "We do need to talk about this, though," he breathes.

"Yeah, we do and we will. Later, okay?” Louis replies, dragging both Harry’s pants and trousers off in one quick motion and pressing him down with a palm to his chest. “Stay still, yeah?” he says, a twinkle in his glazed blue eyes.

Harry exhales shakily and tips his head back, body thrumming with anticipation. 

From there, they make speedy work of ridding every remaining item of clothing and dive right in, smothering one another in relentless kisses until Harry is a boneless heap and Louis’ steady weight is straddling him. 

"Please fuck me," he blinks up at Louis, eyes hot and glassy.

He doesn't care about finesse or making this last. He just needs Louis now.

"Yeah," Louis breathes, kissing along his neck.

There's a frantic, heady rush to how they move things along next, a desperation to be as close as possible, as soon as possible.

“Lou, fuck,” Harry gasps now, fingers pressed firmly into Louis’ back as they lay on the bed, Louis working Harry open, crouched between his spread legs, with soft but practically merciless fingers, eliciting a string of sounds from Harry that he’d have a mind to be embarrassed about, but can’t remember why he’d even care when Louis is burying himself inside him.

“Oh, shit, Harry,” Louis shudders, eyes shut, arms shaking with the effort it’s taking to hold himself up either side of Harry’s head. “You feelꟷ _fuck_.”

They move seamlessly together in a sweaty tangle of limbs, working up a steady rhythm quickly. Give and take, back and forth, breathless moans mingling in the stuffy room that smells of summer and sex and longing. They’re so in sync, fit so perfectly, and Harry has to shut his eyes tight because the way Louis is looking into his eyes right now, it twists something harsh and overwhelming and _oh_ ꟷ

 _There_ it is.

Harry clamps his legs around Louis’ waist, feet digging into the junction of Louis’ knees. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _Lou_.” His heart is pounding hard in his chest, almost as hard as Louis’ thrusts, unravelling as Louis takes him apart.

Louis starts to slow, hips becoming erratic as he pushes Harry’s folded legs towards his chest, snagging Harry’s eyes intently and moving in little figure eights, excruciatingly slowly, the angle is even more intense. 

Harry pants, breaths harsh. His hands land on Louis' arse, squeezing. “ _Please._ I’m gonnaꟷ”

Harry might be leaving his body for a higher plane, vision blurry and white, feels the tightness in his stomach climb higher. Then Louis is suddenly shifting the angle again, prompting a drawn-out sob from Harry’s throat. He throws Harry’s legs over his shoulders and pushes forward again, gripping Harry’s thighs with clammy hands as he thrusts one, two, three, four more times and then Harry’s coming with an aborted cry, smothering his face in Louis’ neck.

Louis thrusts another handful of times before his body is stuttering to a rigid halt, groaning helplessly into Harry’s shoulder, little aftershocks jolting his hips as he comes down, his body heaving.

Harry drops his legs heavily to the bed, arms thrown over his eyes as he pants hard, Louis’ face in his Harry’s chest, much the same, skin sticky and hot with exertion.

After a moment, Louis rolls off him to collapse beside him.

“Well. That wasn’t too bad.”

“Nope,” Harry manages before he’s deliriously laughing, hand resting against his sternum.

Louis laughs with him, his eyes closed. “You know it’s still only about ten, right? Shouldn’t we go back?”

“Yeah. In a bit,” Harry mumbles against his mouth, smiling and delirious as he presses his lips to Louis’.

**

Thirty minutes, a hasty wipe down, a ton of cologne and some vigourous snogging later, they close Harry's door behind them, ruffling their clothes and fiddling with their collars (because they still look flushed and like they very much have been rolling around on top of each other), when Louis' grin is wiped clean off, his hand in Harry's tightening.

"Well, Louis. Someone's been busy, I see." 

Mal is two doors down, key card in his hand and a duffel bag at his feet. He looks as smarmy as ever, clad in a Gucci bomber jacket and his hair reaching for somewhere near the clouds.

It's then that Beth, two of her bridesmaids and her mother all turn the corner into the corridor, tipsily smiling and giggling and wearing pink veils atop their heads, precariously clutching flutes of champagne, and, 

"Oh, shit," Harry whispers.

"Harry? I thought you'd be at the stag?" comes Anne's voice, her face mildly confused but still grinning before her gaze then lands on Louis. And his palm laced with Harry's.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. I've finished it. Bless you if you've actually been waiting for this to be completed. This is a long one, so stay hydrated! xx

 

So, seeing as they're still sweaty and rosy-cheeked from a certain activity, Louis is very unprepared to be faced with Harry’s mother, who's seemingly tipsy and curious and staring intently at his and Harry's very obviously entwined hands.

A long stretch of weirdly thick silence descends.

Louis makes a face, feeling slightly on edge now. He stares. Their bleary, intoxicated eyes stare back. This situation is all so very ridiculous that he almost wants to laugh. He would if it didn't feel like they're balancing on the edge of a fight breaking out.

And Harry hasn't said anything.

Anne's question is just hanging limply in the stilted air, and no one is saying a word.

Several more seconds pass and all that’s happening is this weird, silent staring contest between the drunk and drunker halfway through Beth's hen night, all of them huddled together within the narrow, golden bronze lit corridor, the touchy subject of Harry and Louis sitting in the humid, perfume saturated space around them.

Anne continues to blink at them, her eyes round and alert, waiting for her son to speak, open his mouth.

You know, anything that indicates he heard her question.

But Harry’s apparently speechless, his eyes trained on the duffel bag at Mal’s boots instead. Or maybe it’s the boots he’s eyeing. (They are rather sparkly. Louis makes a mental note to nab him a pair from wardrobe.) (Clare from wardrobe won’t mind if they’re borrowed for a bit. Maybe.)

Oh. Nope. Louis stands corrected. It’s Mal that Harry’s clear green eyes are glowering at.

With an inaudible sigh, Louis subtly nudges Harry’s ankle with his foot, suppressing a snort when Harry stumbles on the spot. If it does the job of prompting him to bloody speak, though.

“Hmm?” Harry lifts his head sharply.

Okay, well, he made a sound at least.

“Harry?” his mum says again. “Where’d you go, darling? I said, I thought you’d still be at the stag? It’s a bit early to leave it, isn’t it?”

And there’s a tone to that last sentence. Louis looks away, feels Harry’s eyes on him.

There’s another solid five seconds of stilted silence, of Louis internally face-palming and about to speak for him, make something up about Harry forgetting his phone, or his pants… before Harry decides to surrender a meagre: “Oh, uhhhꟷno. No, it’s, er… not.” He finishes off with a shrug.

Louis rolls his eyes beside him.

_Good thinking there, Harold. Really quick on your feet._

As though Harry can hear his thoughts, Harry tilts his head towards him with a mild frown.

“I see that,” Anne says, her eyes trailing to where their hands remained tangled.

Huh? See what? What's that supposed to mean? 

Oh, yeah. Louis forgot about that. He looks awkwardly down at their hands.

Anne’s lips twitch at Louis’ very obvious shift in position. But there’s something about her inquisitive expression that convinces Louis to quickly pull his hand away from Harry’s anyway, since he's aware that Harry doesn’t want to lie to his mum about his relationship status anymoreꟷandꟷ

Wait, are they like,  _together_  now? Like, a couple?ꟷnot that Louis doesn't want it, but still, Louis feels uneasy about the current situation, particularly because Beth and her bridesmaids are staring with their dazed eagle eyes, disapprovingly, at the two of them, and just… what the fuck even?

Why? What did Louis even do?

His eyes fall back to Mal’s unwanted presence.

Oh. Oh, right. They think he’s been messing Harry around.

Right. Fabulous.

Maybe he should just extract himself completely until everyone knows the truth about the silly lie Harry got them entangled in. Whenever he decides to come clean, that is. And the closer to the actual wedding he leaves it, sort of guarantees a bit more of a drama about it, doesn’t it? Probably. 

Super.

He turns sideways in his hold on Harry’s palm, attempting to discreetly move away but Harry stays stubbornly where he is, keeping a solid grasp on Louis’ hand, his grip securer than before, interlocking their fingers as a show of, what? Unity? 

What's he doing?

Louis tries to tug his hand away again but Harry imperceptibly shakes his head, stares resolutely ahead.

And. Okay. Cool.

Whatever Harry’s doing, it gives Louis the tingles. And they’re warm tingles, little shots of happiness swimming through Louis’ innards, and Louis could very much get used to this feeling. Harry showing him off. Marking his territory, as it were. And yes, a tad overly possessive of a gesture, but Louis is into that kind of thing. With Harry.

Yes. He definitely could get used to it.

“So how’s your night been, boys?” Anne asks, jolting Louis from his thoughts. His Harry thoughts. They used to send him off-topic while note-taking in lectures many a time. 

“Uh, good,” Louis smiles easily. “Just off back to the stag, actually. Harry here forgot his room key, so.”

Harry musters a small smile when Louis coughs awkwardly, all eyes still locked on them.

“Well, you probably needed the air to cool off, eh? Looking rather sweaty there, Harry,” Beth quips suddenly, her tone clearly suggestive despite the slight slur to her words. "You look like you've been for a run." Another of the girls snorts.

Harry just grins.  _Grins._

Has he no shame?

"Could say that."

No, apparently he does not.

Louis squeezes his hand just a bit too tight in retaliation. His bloody mother is here, for Christ’s sake.

Harry grins harder. (The little stirrer.)

So maybe Harry does want people to think they’re actually together now. Or ‘back together’. Louis’ itching to ask where they're steering this now.

God, did they _have_  to bump into everyone right this second? They have important things to discuss. Like whether or not Harry is truly serious about continuing what they’re doing after this wedding is over and determining what exactly that is.

Whatever it is, though, it’s causing his stomach to swoop dramatically at the possibilities.

But. Louis’ going to be away from Harry for a bit and while their previous conversation shot any hope of that down, Harry has now made it clear it’s Louis that he wants. And Louis needs to know if Harry is going to be okay with that bit of distance on a regular basis. Also taking into account that there’s the dilemma of Harry currently living in Manchester while Louis’ home base is now located in London, and although the fastest train journey is only a couple of hours, it’s still not  _close_ , is it?

Not close enough.

Because Harry craves affection, constant touch. He likes to be held when he sleeps and doted on and fuck, if Louis hasn’t always been willing to oblige in giving Harry those things, what with his own tactile nature and the urge to always be touching Harry himself. 

But in answer to Louis’ own question about Harry’s needs, it seems to be clear that Harry is dead set on them as a unit, having already decided on the two of them being a package deal, a determined expression tugging on his features, and Louis feels an overwhelming flare of warmth fill his chest, despite still feeling uncertain about how this is going to go, fully prepared for one of these women’s misguided, incorrect perception of Louis and Harry’s history to materialise in the shape of drunken wrath, Louis holds on just as tightly.

It feels grounding, Harry’s warm palm enclosed around Louis’ like an anchor, and just how the hell did Louis cope without this for so long?

Never again, thank you, and keep the change.

Yeah, maybe they're going to be just fine.

“Well, I'm glad to see you two together,” Anne smiles belatedly. There’s something else tinging her eyes that makes Louis gulp, suddenly nervous as though he’s being dissected just on his breathing. But, surely Anne wouldn’t believe anything less than complimentary of Louis? He may sound like he’s blowing his own trumpet, but Anne’s his number one fan. Apart from Harry, that is. (And well, he hopes that stays true with Harry.)

“Uh, yeah," he laughs off, fumbling. "Having a good time, are we?” Louis replies around a grin. “You’re looking very zingy," he says, as the girls have collectively started murmuring between themselves, wrapped in their own breathy laughter and inside jokes.

“Yes, yes, everyone’s delightfully tipsy, thank you,” she chuckles, which almost eases the tension in the air, but quickly bleeds into another awkward stretch of silence.

Everyone may be under the influence, but the tension is palpable as everyone goes back to watching Harry and Louis.

If Louis wasn’t so currently out of it he’d find this funny, but right now, he is terribly confused.

Who knows  _what_  exactly? He can’t remember anymore. Damn Harry and his impeccable ability to come up with ridiculous dramatics. (Louis’ so proud.)

Louis starts to blink rapidly, feet stuck to the floor, his hand stuck in Harry’sꟷwho gives his fingers a reassuring squeeze just as Mal slides them a predatory grin. This creep. How he managed to work with him for so long, Louis’ll never know. He just oozes smugness.

(Mal doesn’t deserve the Gucci.) (Harry should be wearing it.) (And himself.)

Louis sniffs, settling his glare on Mal.

“Long time, no see, Lewis,” he grins.

“Louis.”

“You didn’t mind before.”

Louis glares harder.

“Alright, guys,” Beth suddenly says, but Louis can’t quite decide if her tone is panicked concern or sarcastic. It’s a tossup as she shuffles closer to Mal, who yes, is her cousin but she might as well be fraternising with the enemy if she claims to be Harry’s friend.

“When did you get back anyway?” she continues.

“Just checked in five minutes ago and looks like I’m just in time for the party. Right, Lou?”

He immediately looks at Harry at the nickname and as he suspected, Harry is not amused.

Louis doesn’t have time to answer, though, because then Beth is croaking out: “Oh, shit. I think I’ve reached my limit.”

She’s started to appear pale and queasy, putting her palm over her mouth (hopefully she won’t be too worse for wear come tomorrow morning), and there’s flower petals woven into her dark, wavy hair that are slipping loose, her feet perpendicular as she struggles to keep her body upright. Her mother moves to be on one side of her, gripping her arm, her blonde friend holding her hand on her left. Louis’ a bit worried she’s going to break an ankle in this state. Extremely drunk and wearing six-inch heels? A recipe for disaster, surely. (Louis might have some experience during an after party with this exact thing.  _Might_.)

“No, no,” the redhead girl whines from her sudden slumped position by a door. “We’ve not even reached eleven p.m. Stopping alcohol consumption now is far too early. No.”

“If you’re feeling unwell, darling,” begins Beth’s mum. She’s slurring. Oh, great. Is anyone going to make this wedding tomorrow morning? “Let’s go downstairs.”

“I though that’s where we were going?” Beth says confusedly, awkwardly attempting to finish the last sip of champers in her flute. He can see Harry cringing to his right. “Where _are_  we?”

Anne is still watching Harry closely, although a little distantly considering her equally as inebriated state.

It’s as Louis is watching Anne watching Harry that Gemma is suddenly marching down the corridor. “What are you lot even doing up here? Bar’s down that way, girls,” she calls, seemingly far more sober than the rest. “Oh,” she says as she comes to a halt, eyeing everyone closely, brows raised.

There’s a few more beats of silence before Mal starts to obnoxiously chuckle, reminding Louis that he’s even here and unfortunately related to the bride. Louis can’t fight an eye roll. Mal catches it, smirks, then immediately turns his attention toward Harry.

“Mal. I used to work with Lewis here,” he says, seeming far too satisfied with himself as he kicks his bag closer to the door with his boots. (They’re new this season. Louis doesn’t yet have them and barely resists the urge to huff.)

Harry eyes Mal with distaste, that carefully concealed rage Harry has learned to perfect since they’ve been apart fighting its way to the surface. His body stiffens at Louis’ side, his fingers still resolutely tangled in Louis’.

And what’s the protocol in front of other people again? Did they discuss that before their haste to rip each other’s clothes off? No. They did not.

Louis’ dying to just get this over with now, wants so badly to show Harry off as his right this second.

(He needs to double check that last bit with Harry, though.)

An uneasy feeling drips and swirls around Louis’ gut. That’s something they’re really meant to be discussing, and there’s a  _lot_ of points Louis could bring up for for and against, but now they’re stuck in a sandwich between Harry’s mum and Louis’ least liked person ever.

Terrific.

He sends a furtive glance Harry’s way because are they coming clean here and now about the ex-boyfriend thing? That they’re actually just two friends who lost touch through a slew of misunderstandings and foolishly suppressed feelings and have only just got their shit together? Kind of.

Louis isn’t sure how he’s supposed to act, what with being so abruptly confronted with a man he hates, a friend he’s not sure even likes him anymore and Harry’s mother, eyeing him with a curiosity that makes the hairs at the back of Louis’ neck stand on end. Beth is just as intrigued, despite the stumble in her footing. Louis hopes to god she’s not about to yell that she thinks Louis and Mal ever shared a fucking bed.

What if Harry actually believes it? But no. He wouldn’t, would he? No, Harry's told him enough times.

But oh, god, now he’s _sweating_. 

Uh oh. What does he do? Does he let go now? Do they run?

Louis’ clearly panicking right now. So, without thinking any more about it, he quickly whips his hand loose from Harry’s steady grasp, shuffling on the spot and feeling both awkward and defensive, trying his best to ignore the flash of hurt in Harry’s stare that he can sense in his peripherals. He’ll more than make it up to him afterwards.

Because what’s he supposed to do? Mal is right here, looking smug and acting like he knows something no one else does. And everyone here seems to believe there's some truth in the rumours going around. Louis is becoming progressively more annoyed.

Unless Harry is about to tell the truth or decides to open his mouth to say anything at all, Louis will have to take this one. Particularly because the person standing in front of him is what kept Louis from possibly making up with Harry years sooner. It’s a grudge he plans to hold for some time and he’s got a whole lot of ranting word vomit he wants to get out on behalf of him and Harry.

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Harry replies curtly. “We’ve met before. Do you not remember?” His lips curl into a frosty smile, eyes dark. Wow. Even Louis’ a bit scared. “It’s Harry,” he says with false cheer.

Mal simply shrugs, grin still unfaltering and firmly in place. “Afraid I don’t remember you, Harry.”

“No? Oh, man, that’s a shame,” Harry says, sounding so very ungenuine that Louis has to try his hardest to refrain from snorting. He glances sideways at Harry, whose face is suddenly simmering quietly with barely restrained loathing. “I was hoping you’d be able to clear something up for me, actually. You know, since the last time we briefly met. It’s been playing on my mind, you see, and now that you’re here, well. You can put an end to it once and for all, can’t you?” Harry smiles, unyielding and cool.

“Sorry, but I don’t think I can help you,” Mal continues, undeterred. “I don’t recall meeting your lovely face, pal.” He laughs. Fake and irritating. “Sadly.”

Harry hums, eyes following Mal’s attention in which he settles back on Louis.

“It’s been quite a while _, Lewis_.” He gives him a very unsubtle once over. “You look good. Still working with the Louise and the gang?”

Louis grins. “Sometimes, but not that often these days. I’m working on heading towards being more self-employed. I’d like to concentrate on doing more modelling myself, see if that’s a possible route.”

Mal’s own false grin finally starts to slip and he raises his eyebrows in dubiousness. “Right. Well, good luck with that.” His tone is almost mocking. “You know how ruthless it is out there.”

Harry parts his mouth to say something, a deep crease between his brows when Gemma pipes up suddenly, talking over something Anne has started to say, her face twisting in protest.

“Harry? Help me take mum down, will you?”

Gemma locks eyes with Anne, who is still sober enough to take a hint, despite the glaze of her eyes and the rosy tint to her cheeks.

“Oh, yes!” she announces, slightly louder than necessary. “Hold my hand, will you, sweetie? I need all the help with my balance that I can get in these things,” she laughs, wiggling one of her strappy heeled feet.

“Sure, mum,” Harry says immediately, moving towards his mother and taking her hand in his, already walking off down the hall, weighty eyes catching Louis’ for a split-second before he’s looking away and concentrating on Anne, who rests her head lightly on his shoulder. Louis watches them a moment before he darts around, face hardening.

“You’ve got some nerve speaking to Harry. Forget him, did you? Convenient, since you’re the reason I never got his message, eh?” he scoffs.

Luckily, Beth, Chas and her bridesmaids are already moving past them to get to the lifts as well, unsteadily following Anne, Harry and Gemma down the hall, the lights suddenly too bright for the heat rising to Louis’ pores, quietly seething the more he thinks about Mal planning on ruining whatever Harry and Louis drunkenly started to patch up that night.

The harder he does think about that club, though, the clearer his murky, blurred memories become. There's the distant heat of a sweaty palm, the flash of a wide, toothy smile, the muddled images of being crowded by moving bodies, one belonging to Harry, pressed up against him. Of course, these flashes might not even be actual memories, might just be Louis’ imagination running wild. Wondering. Dreaming. But Louis doesn’t think so.

Bits and fragments have been coming back to him slowly and unclear for ages. He just always shook them off as missing Harry, his head full of regrets whenever he had a moment of quiet.

And then there's Mal’s dark glare boring into his, illuminated by a blue glow in the confines of the club, leading Louis to a cab, and Louis falling face first onto a mattress. He sees Liam opening the door to a legless Louis and sitting with him.

Yeah. He remembers parts. Liam's concerned brows and insistence on making Louis drink some water. But there's not nearly enough of what Harry clearly remembers, and his chest aches at the loss.

“Please. I did you a favour," Mal snarls. "He’s a bit uptight, isn’t he?”

“You don’t even know him."

“He’s not for you. Trust me,” Mal says, as though there’s no room left for doubt. Louis scoffs in disbelief. 

“Trust  _you_?” he laughs humourlessly. “You’ve tried to sabotage my entire career so far while trying to flirt your way into my pants. Dropping me in things that were  _your_  fault, taking the credit for concepts and emsembles  _I_ came up with, but going as far as to interfere with my love life? You’re a piece of work, you know that? You're a sad man.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lewis,” Mal yawns on an eye roll, opening the hotel room door and strolling inside lesuirely. He pokes his head out after a second. “See you at the wedding,” he winks and slams the door.

Louis glares at it, hands clenched into fists. Then his phone buzzes.  Louis opens the message, grateful for the distraction from possibly attempting to kick Mal’s door in.

It’s from Harry.

_I’ll be in the gardens x_

Louis pockets his phone and makes his way to the lift.

**

There’s screaming laughter. A stripper dressed as a policeman. Pink glitter everywhere. And an array of spilled drinks.

Harry sits with a grimaced smirk on his face, would absolutely love to be embroiled in all this if his mind wasn’t elsewhere. He’s sad to say it, but the tiara currently sitting on his head is being severely neglected. As is the baby pink feather boa.

(It’s a damn shame.)

But Louis.

That’s where his head is staying wrapped in until they’re official. (Harry’s in fucking love. Give him a break.)

(And it’s not like he’s ruining the mood. The ladies are having a whale of a time.)

“Oh, are you leaving me already, darling?” His mum bats her eyelids at him, obviously planning to wheedle out the reason Harry was holding Louis’ hand. She grabs the nearest bottle of champagne and begins to precariously pour out a glass for Harry, some of the fizz dribbling over the rim and onto the table.

She holds it out to Harry with another one of her contagious blinding grins. “Thanks, mum,” he laughs.

“There’s a good boy. Have some champers with your mummy,” she grins sleepily, voice soft as cotton, her hand reaching up to gently ruffle through his hair. Harry smile wider, deciding to stick around for a bit longer and plonks himself in the seat next to her.

And as she continues to watch Harry at their places among the rowdy table housing Beth’s hen party, saturated with glitter and pink fur as they clap along to the striptease currently taking place on Beth’s lap, Harry almost decides to come clean about everything, wants so much to ask her advice about what to do about Louis.

Though she’s slurring her words and on her way to falling asleep, her eyelids drooping further, so now is probably not the best time.

Harry is more than happy to tell her about Louis when things are clearer between them, but definitely not when one of Beth’s bridesmaids has decided to climb onto the table to throw confetti in the air. (Which mainly just ends up in everyone’s very pricey cocktails.)

Thankfully, Gemma calls their mum’s sister to take over and escapes with Harry, linking their arms as they make a run for it.

“So, what was that I stumbled on earlier?” Gemma nudges his arm with her shoulder, a smirk dancing over her mouth.

“There might be some development on the Louis front,” Harry smiles, ducking to hide his giddiness at least a bit. He must look like a gooey, lovestruck teen.

“Oh, yeah? What kind of development? Must be something when you two are now  _holding hand_.”

“I’d rather not discuss it with my _sister_ , thank you.”

Gemma raises her eyebrows. “Well,” she says, clearing her throat. “Don’t say another word, because you’re right, I do not need to hear that.”

Harry grins, feeling deliriously happy, a persistent flutter in his stomach.

“But you’ve sorted things now?”

Harry’s grin falters just slightly, but it’s enough for Gemma to jump on. “Harry, please tell me you’ve said the three words, at least.”

“No, butꟷ” Gemma groans, shaking her head, “we’re getting there. We want to be with each other in whatever way we can. We’ve established that much. And then there’s, uh, something else we need to talk about.”

“Which is?”

"I might have a job offer.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gemma smiles with surprise, maybe a hint of shock, and yeah, Harry can agree with that.

“Don’t act too dumbfounded, will you?” he smirks. “Yeah, it’s an interview for an online fashion publication. Probably more for their website, but they might also need a photographer as well. They want to look at some of my stuff. Both articles and photos, so. It pays really well, too.”

“That sounds great, H,” Gemma beams. “Where is it based? Will you be working from home, orꟷ?”

“No, um. Their offices are based in London.” Harry clears his throat.

“Oh,” Gemma says, another flash of surprise in her eyes, but then it quickly transforms into another somewhat smug smile. “Ohhhh,” she drawls. “You know Louis’ based in London.” She lifts a calculating brow.

“Yes. I know.”

Harry smiles, small and secretive as he bows his head.

“But I haven’t even had the interview yet so don’t get too excited. And I applied to this so long ago, on a complete whim that I forgot all about it so... It’s not like I planned it this way.”

“It’s yours, I know it. And if you need somewhere to stay, obviously you can crash with us as long as you need.” Gemma gives his arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Gem, come on. You’re really jumping the gun here,” he smiles, “but thank you. I appreciate that. And if it happens, I won't wheedle in too much on your newlywed time."

"Oh, please. Sam doesn't mind. As long as you need to."

"Thanks," Harry smiles, squeezing Gemma's hand.

“I think the timing works out nicely, though.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry says, fixing his palm on the back of his neck. “We’ll see.”

Gemma pulls him into a hug, squishing her cheek against his. “It’ll be fine. You’ll get this job. Move to London. And get Louis, too! At last. This has been meant to be since you were still teenagers.”

“I hope so,” Harry murmurs, just as he catches the sight of Louis wandering towards the bar as he makes his way toward the patio doors.

**

It’s properly dark now as Harry wanders around the canopy set up outside for the wedding. Huge sheets of white take up the lawn, golden fairy lights strung from the top of the tent around the sides. There’s lights in the trees and bushes surrounding the garden, the flowers blending in beautifully with the tables and chairs inside and out, the tablecloths soft cream and patterned with shining silver cutlery, the napkins arranged in intricate shapes.

Harry jumps when Louis comes up behind him, shoes silent in the grass.

Harry smiles instantly, reaching out to touch. Louis closes his hand around his palm, gently lowering it and holding it between them.

“Hi,” he breathes around a shy smile. Why he’s suddenly nervous around him when he literally spread out underneath Louis an hour ago is beyond him. Maybe it’s because he was. Laid bare and vulnerable and lost in everything that Louis is: gentle, firm, soft, intoxicating and able to make Harry feel endlessly loved.

Yeah, Harry’s certain. He’s in still love with Louis, and always has been. Not that that was really up for debate, but he's fully embracing it now, happy that the lingering regret and sadness has gone and been replaced with giddy excitement and comfort. And he knows Louis cares about him deeply, that he’s really into him at the very least, wants to pursue something between them.

Though, someone who doesn’t love you couldn’t possibly make you feel so completely loved by them if they don't? Right? He’s going to ask him, he will. He just wants to melt in this for a while longer. Just in case… well. Yeah.

“Alright?” Louis grins back, voice soft, quiet as he approaches.

Harry hands makes a beeline for his waist, smiling instantly as he pulls him forward into his space, Louis pliant and easily willing to go with wherever Harry's hands choose. It sends a warm stirring low in Harry's belly and he can't stop the urge to nudge their noses together, still a little stunned but elated that this has all unravelled so quickly. Harry’s chest bursts with intense bouts of warmth, fondness, _love_. His knees even wobble and he suddenly can't stop giggling under his breath, Louis laughing along with him.

It's all very gooey and dreamlike and Harry's determined for this bubble not to burst.

Not when Louis is nudging at Harry’s cheek with his lips, moving back to his nose, their palms jotting together.

It’s such a simple, sweet gesture, Louis brushing his nose over Harry’s, grazing along his jawline, finishing with a brief nuzzle against Harry’s flaming cheeks, close to his breathless mouth.

“I am now,” he says, rather delayed, pressing a lingering kiss to Louis’ lips, cradling his head carefully in his hands. He pauses, a crinkle between his brows. “Wait. What did you say to Mal?”

“Not a lot. Just yelled a bit. If I'd have given him a black eye that would not have gone well with the bride, would it?"

"I don't think many people would go for that, no. Especially if I'd have been the one to do it." Harry frowns slightly.

"But anyway, he’s not important.  _We_  have  _one_  night left, and I’m set on making it unforgettable for us both,” Louis grins, wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously, leaning further into Harry’s chest. "If you know what I mean."

"I think the plants know what you mean," Harry deadpans, a sudden heaviness settling in his stomach as the worst coincidence in the shape of Crowded House’ ‘Don’t Dream It’s Over’ can be heard crooning from inside the bar, and stupidly, his eyes begin to sting. It’s not over, though, is it? It's Harry making this more dramatic and a bigger deal than it needs to be. God, how did so much change in a matter of days? It's simple. All Harry has to do is ask Louis to keep him. And that’s that. Right? Who cares about some distance for a bit? Harry might get to be Louis'. That's all he wants.

"You still want to, right?" Louis says, eyes suddenly clouding over with concern. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles thinly, gulping around the rising lump in his throat. “'course, I do."

Louis pulls away, looking at him seriously and searching for something in Harry’s face. Harry wonders what he sees.

“Hey.” Louis' hands close around Harry’s wrist and gently, he lowers them between them. “Okay, so, here’s the thing: I have a flight to catch in the early hours of Monday morning, as you know already.”

Harry nods, mouth downturned. His eyes follow.

“And, uh, I can stay for a while after the ceremony’s over for the reception, but then I really have to scoot home and get to the airport.”

Louis watches Harry closely, seemingly waiting for a reply.

Harry nods quickly. “Okay,” he smiles, attempting to fight off a deeper frown and trying hard not to sound petulant about the idea of Louis leaving Harry’s arms.

“But if you wanted to, like...” Louis trails off, cheeks slightly reddening, nervous, if Harry didn't know him any better.

Harry blinks. “Want to what?”

“Well, we need to talk about whether you want to carry this on." Louis lightly trails his hands down the expanse of Harry’s back. He has to suppress a shiver.

"Wait, what do you mean  _me_  wanting to carry this on? But what do you want?" Harry frowns.

Louis smirks. "Okay, look."

"Yes?" Harry asks dazedly, leaning in further.

“Tomorrow, meet me back here in this spotꟷ” They’re situated between two large crimson rose bushes. Harry’s eyes dart to the blooming petals and their swirling red colour and feels heat rise to his face. Blushing when Louis takes his palm and softly kisses the middle of it. “ꟷand then tell me what you want to do.”

A laugh bubbles up Harry’s throat. "What are you on about?” he frowns around a bemused smile. 

Louis’ eye glint golden blue in the lights. Harry could get lost in them and be happy to stay there forever. “As long as you meet me here at seven o’ clock tomorrow, I'll know you'll want to do this with me. The whole thing. A relationship and everything it entails.”

Harry bursts into giggles. “So not even at midnight? What kind of prince are you?"

"One that's asking you to meet me here at seven on the dot. It’s modern times, Harold."

"Are you for real?" Harry continues to laugh. "Who do you think you are, Louis Tomlinson? Prince bloody Charming?”

“I’m  _trying_  to keep the romance alive here, Styles.” Louis feigns a huff, grinning. “Do you want to help me, or not? I’m being fun. You like fun, don’t you, Mr Troublemaker?”

Harry hides his face in his hands, blushing profusely, teeth sunken into his bottom lip like his life depends on it. "Who you calling Troublemaker?" he mumbles into his hands.

"Uh... you, you rascal. Everyone blames me for mysterious mischief, but the truth is, you are just as bad as me, Harold."

He feels Louis' finger jab at his chest.

“I could be persuaded.”

Harry sways on the spot, hiding, smiling, fluttering. He hears Louis' breathy laugh and shifts his fingers apart to peek at the source.

“Gone all coy, have you?” Louis grasps his hands. “That’s a first. You're usually the most adorable little hoe.” He teasingly squeezes Harry's bum. 

“Hey! Shut up,” Harry laughs softly.

“No, but, seriously, Harry. I know on paper it doesn’t sound the most ideal. You live in Manchester. I live in London, and I travel a lot in between. And I know what you’re like. You like closeness, intimacy, lots of contact.”

Harry gulps, eyes wide as he concentrates on the earnestness of Louis’ voice. “I do but, we can still be close in other ways. And if we’re together, we’re together, right? Wherever we are in the world. You’ll still be mine and I’m still yours.”

"Right." Louis bites down a grin. “Exactly."

“Louis,” Harry whispers, hands sneaking their way around his waist, pulling Louis towards him so that they’re flush against each other.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Louis giggles, jumping back from Harry’s arms, shaking his head.

Harry frowns petulantly.

“Tomorrow. Your answer. Specifics. All on the line. Everything.” Louis grins again. "I mean it, Styles. Seven on the dot, and don't you dare be late or I'll think you've changed your mind." He gives him one last meaningful look, taps Harry's chin with a soft finger and starts to pace backwards on the lawn, glowing with the fairy lights strung around the tent.

“You’re not even going to kiss me goodnight?” Harry frowns.

“I thought we were going back to the party?” Louis grins, taking Harry’s hand back for a moment to swing and then lets him go again. Of course, Harry tries to hold on.

“Okay, I think we can have fun with that.”

Harry smirks to himself as he begins walking back inside.

“Uhhh. What you mean by that, Styles?”

“Let’s go and maybe you’ll find out while we’re there,” he lilts cheekily, pinching Louis’ bum as he catches up to his side.

“Ah!” Louis squawks.

Harry laughs, running off ahead of him with Louis not far behind. Maybe this will actually work, he thinks to himself, smiling with a warm-honeyed hum under his skin.

**

They do have fun at the party. Lots of fun.

Niall stayed with them a couple more hours before he retired for the night, having to leave to catch his flight the next day.

"I'm off, Haz," Niall announced, smacking a sloppy kiss to his cheek. "If anything happens, or you need anything at all, just call me, yeah? Or leave a message if I'm in the air."

"Thanks Niall," Harry says, pulling him into a hug and resting his cheek against his shoulder. "And you know, also thanks for coming up with this ridiculousness or else I don't know how this would have gone with Lou at all."

He honestly doesn't. He might very well have ignored him the whole time and regretted it afterwards.

Thank god for Niall's wild mind.

"Welcome. I expect Best Man duty at the wedding," Niall whispers. He winks, moving on to jump on Louis before Harry can say anything.

But yes. They have a lot of fun once Niall is gone.

Fun involving some very risqué, highly inappropriate behaviour involving their mouths and other significant parts of their anatomy, partially hidden over in a darkened corner of the club that's drenched in indigo blue light, their hands incapable of keeping to themselves, even though there's so many people hovering and dancing around them.

But if Louis doesn't mind, then Harry certainly doesn't.

Yeah. Semi-public sex? Harry must be impossibly in love with him.

**

When they finally stumble out of the club, leaving the rest of the stag party's attendees with their drunken hugs and nonsensical words of departure and good luck for Matt the next morning, Louis gets Harry back in his hotel room and quite literally onto his back, too.

Harry wraps his legs around Louis' waist as high as they'll let him, and smudges messy, hungry kisses across Louis’ mouth, chin, neck, filling Louis' senses until all that's left is Harry running through his innards, moving his lips endlessly, ceaselessly his shoulders and arms and over any part of Louis' body he can reach, rubbing his thumbs occasionally over Louis' bottom lip and nipping softly with his teeth.

They swap intoxicated, lazy smiles as their torsos align, their bellies brushing and rolling over each other, legs spread and restless, locked and tangled.

Moving, moving, moving. Breathing, breathing, breathing.

They get lost in each other until Louis smacks a last chaste, lingering kiss against Harry’s suddenly pliant, agape mouth, no longer urgent and eager to take, but now slack and content, soft sighs leaving his parted lips as he tips his head back and rolls over, tugging Louis closer and back into him gently by the nape of his neck, his palms searing hot into his skin like a permanent claim.

And Louis wants nothing more in the world but this.

**

The air con is a welcome coolness on Harry’s shoulders as he wakes up warm and sated, and generally like he’s been living on a cloud for the last four or so hours that he’s managed to sleep through. He snuggles further into the sheets, a beaming smile stretching the heated, loose skin across his pillow mark-streaked face when he remembers why and what exactly happened between these cool satin sheets last night.

He’s about to roll over and give Louis a good morning kiss, morning breath and all, stomach swirling with an overwhelmingly dizzy amount of thrilled butterflies and the pressing urge to bury his face into Louis’ neck when he stretches his left arm on the mattress andꟷ

And finds an empty cold spot next to him instead.

Oh.

Drop, drop, drop goes his stomach.

Unconscious dread instantly washes over him, but it lasts all of two seconds when his eyes snag on the hastily ripped bit of paper sitting on top of the other pillow.

 _Check your phone Mr Dramatic,_ it says, as though Louis knew what Harry might think when he found Louis not there.

Harry scoffs, pouting, and opens a new Whatsapp message from Louis.

_See you at noon, babe ;) You and your peachy bum will be solemnly missed in the meantime x_

Harry's teeth instantly bite into his bottom lip.

He sinks under the covers, grinning.

**

It’s a lovely wedding so far, as weddings go, Louis thinks.

Not that anything much has happened yet, but there’s soft piano music tinkling in the church as they wait for the ceremony to start. It’s something that sounds like it’s probably an Adele song, but Louis can’t quite place it. (Harry would know it.)

Speaking of. Louis scans the room on Matty’s side of the family. He's seen everyone except Harry so far, feeling a twinge of concern as to why he’s cutting it so fine. But he needn’t worry. He spots Harry hurriedly running into the church around the other side and plonking himself down on the end of the isle next to Anne and Gemma.

He meets his eyes, giving him a tiny smirk.

Harry’s dressed in a tailored ebony suit, except his cream shirt is tied at the top in a bow, and a yellow carnation pinned to his breast pocket like the rest of the groomsmen, looking every inch the chiselled, Disney prince vision with his answering smile. 

Louis faces the front again, focusing his attention on the music, though of course he finds himself burning hot under his collar at the feel of Harry eyes continuously flitting back to him.

**

He just made it. Thank god. 

He can't believe he was almost late because of a fit of madness that had him spontaneously speeding home in his car to scramble through his flat to find the record he meant to give Louis all those years ago. Like the utter sap he is. God. He hopes it isn’t too cheesy, but it means everything to Harry so… yeah. He’s gonna do it. All the unbelievable corniness of the gesture attached.

It took him so long to find, though, that Harry was fearful he’d somehow thrown it away in a fit of drunken misery, but thankfully, it was right in the many boxes of records he already owns hidden in the corner of his bedroom.

Almost everyone is sat down already, waiting and murmuring to each other as they wait for the ceremony to start, a few last minute faces joining the end rows in their posh hats and garb. He pats himself down once and runs his fingers through his hair as his eyes search for his family's seats.

Harry finds them a couple of rows to the left of the church, their immediate family members and sits himself down, legs awkward and jittery, trying to clamp down on his eyes not seeking out Louis’ immediately.

Which of course, they do. They meet. Louis smirks. Harry dies a bit.

Louis is sitting halfway down the right-hand side of the church, hands clasped together, eyes quickly flitting away to watch the bridesmaids slowly travelling down the aisle, the little flower girls slightly ahead of them with their tiny bunches of flowers, looking adorable in their puffy cream dresses, yellow ribbons in their curled hair. Harry smiles at them, charmed by their tentative swaying and the smiles they send the guests, which of course is when Louis finds his eyes again.

They stare at each other timidly and Harry’s heart skips fitfully, nervous about later even though he’s fairly certain they’ve already discussed their mutual interest in becoming an item.

God, he hopes so. He knows so, even. But his heart and mind aren’t going to settle until Louis asks him to be his boyfriend once and for all.

He sits quietly, watches with interest as the ceremony continues, and Beth is entering the church through the doors with her father’s arm linked with her own. She looks stunning in her satin wedding dress, strapless with the skirt curved outward like an upside-down bell, her white gloves holding her eloquent bouquet of lilies and yellow carnations, her hair done up in an effortless bun, strands swirling behind her ears.

Hymns are sung. The vows go as planned, and before Harry knows it they’re all standing outside the church in an arch, throwing confetti at the bride and groom.

Harry’s laughing at Matty attempting to get a load of confetti out from inside his collar that Harry so lovingly shoved down there as he passed him, when there’s a gentle tap on his left shoulder. He melts instantly, knowing exactly whose touch that belongs to.

“Hi. Louis Tomlinson,” Louis grins, holding out his hand for Harry to take as though they’re strangers. Harry scrunches his face and fondly rolls his eyes. “I don't believe we've met. My hobbies include whiskey, contemplation and screaming. Not necessarily in that order. Fancy a date?"

“No, you’re an idiot,” Harry retorts, failing to control his face from splitting in two. "And I hate whiskey." 

“Ah, well,” Louis sighs dramatically, slapping his hand against his thigh. "We definitely aren't compatible. You wouldn't want to kiss this mouth drenched in the stuff then."

"I might develop a taste for it," Harry murmurs, tilting his head to the side, his hip following coquettishly. Yes. He's absolutely flirting. What of it?

"Oh, might you now?" Louis says lowly, taking a step closer and then catching himself at the last second. They both flick their eyes to observe their surroundings. Most people have followed Beth and Matty to their car that's taking them to the back at the hotel's gardens to get their professional wedding photos taken, still throwing what's left of their confetti and snapping pictures on their phones.

“Do you know whose table you're sat at?” Harry asks distractedly, letting his gaze linger down the shape of Louis' body, incredibly distracted by the tight fit of his trousers hugging his waist. He clears his throat and smirks when Louis catches his gaze.

"No idea," Louis whispers, staring at Harry's mouth.

"Stop that. You're making me want to jump you right now."

"Well, it's a nice day for it," Louis replies, looking up at the blue sky with his hands now in his pockets.

Harry laughs, folding his arms around his chest.

“Okay, so. Back to the hotel, then? Did you bring your car?”

“Yeah. Meet you between the peonies, Hazza.”

Harry yelps out another loud laugh as they walk to their cars, blushing profusely when Louis gives him one more stare that has Harry wanting to sin by streaking naked through a churchyard.

And he wouldn’t even be sorry.

**

Harry attempts to keep his eyes focused on the golden glow of the hundreds of fairy lights strewn around the matching white tables and chairs, weaving in and out of the sweeping canopy above them. An assortment of white carations and lillies and other yellow flowers deck out the centrepieces for each table, pretty and elegant, small lanterns lit and bright on each one. And it’s gorgeous to look at. It turned out wonderfully.

But it's Louis' presence that's pressing on Harry’s mind and body in more ways than one.

He's leaving soon and it's almost time for Harry to meet him further down the garden in the spot Louis asked him to last night.

Harry’s stomach is fluttering madly as he contemplates when he should go upstairs and get the record. It’s a seven-inch vinyl single he bought off Amazon not long after that time he heard it on the radio when Louis’ car broke down.

Elvis Presley - 'Can't Help Falling in Love.'

It’s either going to be the cheesiest, most embarrassing thing ever or Louis will be so touched, that he’ll give him a gift of his own in the backseat of his car before he sets off home to pack.

And it’s while his mind is racing with all these Louis-centric thoughts that he slips into Completely Oblivious mode, forgetting that there’s a few people acting rather unfriendly towards Louis in and around the place.

One being his Auntie Carolꟷand considering she’s kept overlooking the fact Harry’s come out to her three times alreadyꟷhe’s a bit surprised that she’s the one family member making a show of Harry’s love life so publicly. She’s a gossip, yes, and has tried and obviously failed to set Harry up with a number of girls over the years, but this is taking the cake.

Her hair is a bit of a wild cluster of blonde and grey streaked curls, and her eyeshadow like something out of the eighties but oddly still nice to look at. She’s clearly had one too many, though, going by the way her eyes are unfocused and how she’s leaning over the table precariously, swaying like a ragdoll. Harry puts a hand on his aunt’s shoulder to steady her. Out of his peripherals, he can tell his mum is watching them both closely.

“Are you alright, there, Auntie Carol?” he asks, amused at the moment.

She points her finger at him, wagging it around accusingly, eyelids drooping.

Harry smirks further until he follows the direction in which she’s pointing…

It’s right at Louis, who’s standing with a blonde lady and her daughter, talking to them animatedly. He’s grinning at the little girl so brightly, so fond and softly, it makes Harry’s heart clench painfully, making it a hell of a job to even stay breathing correctly.

“You can do better, darling,” Carol speaks up, slurring her words, tone curt.

Harry had momentarily forgotten she was even here, too transfixed with Louis’ crinkled eyes as he speaks to a six-year-old. “Sorry?”

“That boyfriend of yours. If he’s played around before, he’ll play around again,” she mumbles. Carol screws up her face in disgust, sneering.

“But I don’t have a boyfriend?” Harry frowns.

“You do. That one you’re always cooing over.” She points at Louis again, keeps pointing. She’s turned a few heads at their table now, her voice having grown louder, more insistent, even over the music.

Good god.

“No, no. Auntie Carol, that’s not true,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “We’reꟷ”

She nods, still off-balance. “How dare you hurt my nephew, youꟷyouꟷslimy so and so!” she shouts over at him.

And Jesus Christ.

“ _Auntie Carol_ ,” he grits, trying to tame the agitation he’s beginning to feel. What the hell have people been talking about around here? He knew his family liked to gossip and spread rumours as a means of amusement, but have people been making up outright lies as well?

“Apparently, sweetieꟷand I didn’t want to be the one to tell you thisꟷ” Carol pauses to hiccup, pursing her lips as she brings her almost empty glass of red wine to her mouth, smudged with lipstick. “But that kind gentlemen over there informed me that he was unfaithful to you more than once.” Harry follows her eyeline. Mal. Right. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t sit here while he walks around like he owns the place, while you don’t know, darling.” She slumps backwards in her chair, practically falling off it as she grabs Harry’s hand. He frowns deeply, steadying her again before she suddenly falls off and onto the grass in an awkward heap.

“I don’t know who told you that,” Harry says lowly, as he bends down to help her, glancing over at Mal. He’s smirking, a bottle of lager in his interfering hand. He looks away when Harry doesn’t break his hard stare, “but that’s completely wrong information you have, okay? That’s absolutely untrue, and I’d appreciate it if you kept your voice down. People are looking.”

Carol blinks at him for a few bleary seconds, before she’s abruptly standing and attempting to climb on her chair.

And Jesus Christ, what even is his family sometimes? This is ridiculous. He looks around the tent and outside it too, toward the gardens, at everyone extremely merry and drunk and yeah, this is a wedding reception, but god. It’s a bit much. Even his mum looks to be sloshed, though her concern seems to have dimmed, having transferred it to a wide-eyed Gemma. And now they’re barking crap about Louis, apparently having nothing more interesting to talk about.

“Auntie Carol, sit down.” He tugs at her waist, trying to coax her into sitting quietly before she bellows something even more damning to Louis’ name over the music. He sees Gemma making her way over and a few ladies have already appeared to see if they can help.

“That boy is a love cheat!” she yells, loud enough to startle the wedding guests into looking up from their champagne stupors. Harry’s eyes widen.

And no. For fuck’s sake.

Enough.

Louis finally cottons on to what’s happening, eyes widening between his frown. He looks around sheepishly, trying to laugh it off but someone’s strolling up to him, staggering more like, face standoffish.

Harry marches up to where the band is playing, under the canopy of lights strewn through the bushes that frame the wooden stage set up and steals a mic.

“Right. Okay. Um. I’m really sorry to interrupt the celebrations this evening and I promise I’ll be really quick.” He darts his eyes over to the main table on the edge of the tent, his mum staring at him in confusion, looking like she’s about to get up. Gemma widens her eyes in encouragement, shooting him a tiny smirk and a discreet thumbs-up.

Then his eyes seek out Louis, whose face is pinched as he lowers his glass. He raises an eyebrow in question at the table to his mum’s left.

Mal sits a few seats away from him, leering at Harry like he’s ready for a shitshow to start.

“But, um… yeah. I’m sorry to interrupt the party, but I need to clear some things up right now and it can’t wait because it’s got just completely out of hand.”

“Cheat!” His Auntie Carol is still slurring, helped away by several people as she staggers.

He looks out into faces of all the guests at the tables. Some are carrying on with their fun, champagne flutes still to their lips, and some are gaping up at Harry, confused. Others look delighted.

“Oi, are you gonna sing for us, Harry?” someone yells out.

“Sing Dancing Queen!”

“No, something  _by_ Queen!”

“I Want To Break Free!

Oh, jesus.

“No, no. No singing,” he grimaces. “Look, um. It’s come to my attention that a lot of you have been talking about me and Louis and our past relationship? And that some of you seem to think Louis cheated on me?”

A lot more faces turning to look at Harry.

“And I need to put a stop to this now or I’m the worst potential boyfriend ever,” he laughs nervously.

He looks for Louis again to see his eyebrows have shot up.  _What are you doing?_  He mouths.

His mum walks a little closer to the stage with a concerned expression.

“Harry, are you drunk?” Matty calls, half-frowning and half looking like he’s about to laugh, cheeks flushed with copious amounts of red wine himself. Beth is standing beside him, a puzzled expression on her face. She shoots a glance over at a stony Mal.

“No, not even close. Look, I told you guys that Louis and I dated a few years ago, right out of uni?”

A mixture of confused, amused, curious faces stare back at him. Harry gulps.

“And, um, number one: that was a lie. It never happened. Okay? And number two: Louis would never do that to anyone. Be unfaithful, I mean. He’s not like that. Simple as.” He clears his throat, fingers running along the mic’s wire.

“And I just can’t have you all think this of him because he’sꟷ Louis, is the best person I know, and he deserves to be treated properly and to be thought of in the best way because that’s what he is. He’s amazing. And you all need to know that. So, everything you think you know or whatever you’ve heard, it’s not true. Louis hasn’t done anything wrong.”

The band standing behind him are staring at him, brows pulled together and rather bemused. The guests that are actually listening look much the same.

Harry sighs. “It was me. I pretended Louis was my ex so that some of my family members would leave me alone and wouldn’t ask certain questions. Because I’m an idiot, clearly. But it didn’t quite turn out as I planned. And it backfired completely.”

A mixture of puzzled, amused, curious faces stare back at him. But Harry gulps when Louis meets his eyes.

Harry feels like he’s on fire, the fidgety way his heels won’t keep still end up catching on one of the wooden panels.

“For a number of a reasons. But mainly because I was being so stupid, Louis was considered something he’d never be. And I can’t have you thinking anything less than wonderful things of him. So. Yeah. That’s all I have to say. I’m an idiot and I’m sorry. Uh. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and Beth, Matty. Sorry again for the interruption and I wish you many happy years to come.”

Harry heaves out another breath and hands back the mic to the singer. “Sorry, mate.”

He hops back down off the stage and his mum is already bounding over to him, a champagne flute in her hand. Harry braces himself.

“Harry. I’m sorry, I’m confused. You were _never_ with Louis?”

“Well, no. Not never. There’s… we… well, I might be kind of with him now?”

His mum still looks puzzled. Harry doesn’t blame her. He’s not entirely sure what’s been going on either.

“Okay. Well, I thought as much there, with the way you’ve been acting around him, or not.” She gives him another knowing look. “But he’s _not_ your ex-boyfriend?” His mum frowns again. And yeah, she’s really  _frowning._ There’s a huge dent between her eyebrows. His mum’s soft face… not.

Harry clears his throat, putting his closed fist to his mouth. “Uh. No.”

He shifts awkwardly on the grass, not really sure what to do with his arms. There are still a lot of people staring at him, studying him with poor concealed, nosy glances, while others have got back to the wedding, guzzling their alcohol and their cheeks red with laughter as the band begins to play again.

“Then why on earth did you say you were, Harry?” she asks, confused and a bit on the bewildered side. Harry doesn't blame her. It is pretty ridiculous.

“Because I was stupid,” Harry says, resigned, lifting his hands up. “I was just feeling lonely without someone here, that’s all. And maybe… maybe I felt frustrated at myself. I wasn’t where I wanted to be, and I was kind of, I don’t know. Disillusioned or something. And then I bumped into Louis again and I guess on some level, I wanted him back in whichever way I could. Even if it meant arguing with him. But really, I just think I was a bit sad and feeling sorry for myself. It was a stupid idea and I’m sorry I lied to you. Please don’t be too mad. Even though I probably deserve being repeatedly called a pillock right now.”

His mum sighs, a small smile pulling at her mouth. “Honey, you’re not supposed to be _exactly_ where you want to be yet. Life’s not cut and dry by certain ages. You’ve still got plenty of time.”

“But you always bang on about me bettering myself and finding a nice husband and all that,” Harry protests. “Not that I’m blaming you, obviously,” he blushes, eyes finding the ground.

“Oh, I don’t mean to be pushy,” she smiles, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry I made you feel rushed. I’m just being your mum. I don’t mean anything by the things I say.” She squeezes him, chuckling lightly.

Harry smiles timidly. “Do you think I’ve been a bit mad?”

“Oh, definitely.” She laughs. Harry does too. Then a pause. “Did you lie about everything, though?” she then asks him as she pulls back, her eyes watching him closely.

“What do you mean?”

“About the things you said about him. About how you clearly have feelings for Louis.”

Harry shrugs.

“Honestly. How silly you’ve been.” She rolls her eyes, but then she’s tugging Harry into her arm, face pressed against his. “I know how you feel about him, sweetie. It’s been written all over your face since he got here. You can’t hide the things that matter from me. I know.”

“I love him, mum.”

“I know you do, and you better tell him before he leaves, eh?” His smiles, pecking him on the cheek.

“I’m planning on it.” Harry pauses, whirling around to look for Louis. He can't see him yet so maybe he still has time. “Mum, what's the time?"

His mum checks her watch. "About ten to seven. Why?”

"I have to go grab something important upstairs andꟷ”

His mum’s eyes almost bug out of their sockets. “Oh, my god. Is it a ring?”

“No!” he laughs. “Calm down. We’re not there yet. He’s not even my official boyfriend." Though, the thought of settling down with Louis as soon as possible sends another wave of butterflies floating through his insides. "No, it’s something that's special to us, or well, more to me, but then I'm telling Louis the truth," he grins, sighing happily, feeling lighter already, limbs thrumming with anticipation all of a sudden. They feel a bit like jelly. It's addictive. 

“Well, hurry up, then." His mum shoos. "I’ll deal with our lot over there.” A bunch of his aunties are looking at them warily, talking amongst themselves rather loudly. 

Harry pays them no mind and dashes through the reception to get back into the hotel, scrambling to get into the lift before the doors close. He ruffles his hair in the mirrors, picturing where he left the record on the bed.

But because he’s in such a frantic rush, running on pure nervous energy, as soon as the lift doors open, Harry bumps right into a maid carrying a high pile of clean sheets, which tumble to the floor along with both Harry and the maid.

“Oh, god, I am so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Harry rushes to apologise.

The maid just chuckles, red cheeked, and immediately starts picking up the sheets. She probably wants to beat Harry over the head with them. “It’s fine, sir. It was my fault.”

“No, no, it wasn't. Here, let me help you with that,” he splutters, bending down to pick up a few towels too.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” the maid smiles, a little out of breath from traipsing up and down the corridors, probably. “But I’ve got them, really. Thank you.”

“Do these go in that closet I saw around the corner? I can take those for you.”

“They do indeed, but I better take them myself. I’ll get accused of slacking off and sneaking my workload onto the guests, sir,” she whispers jokingly. It's probably not a joke, though.

“No, really. I’ll walk with you!” Harry says, aware he’s wasting time, but he’s just dirtied up these newly washed sheets that this poor woman has probably spent ages doing.

“If you’re sure,” she replies, very unsure, but still chuckling and likely eager to get rid of him. “It’s just here.”

Harry takes the towels and sheets and hands them over, apologising again and begins walking back the other way, patting down his body for his phone.

It's not there.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, thinking he must have dropped it with the sheets or something. He’s suffering from mild panic right now but as long as it’s the linen cupboard, there’s no need to worry or go ape shit crazy, eh?

Harry darts back to the still ajar door, the maid’s back turned halfway down the corridor as she collects the rest of her trolley and its contents and slips inside the darkened space. He sifts through the sheets carefully, getting progressively messier as time goes on without him finding his fucking phone.

God, where is it??

Then it goes dark.

Like, really dark. Wait. What?

“Shit, no.”

Harry panics. He freezes. Stuck in the space between the shelves and the closed door in his face.

“Wait!” he shouts, but it’s muffled. Jesus, how thick is this door built? He blindly feels around for the door knob and finds it’s locked. It’s fucking locked! Of course, it is! Because the universe is stopping Harry from getting what he wants every bloody time he comes close. Of. Fucking. Course.

“Help! I’m locked in!”

No, no. This can’t be happening. “No, no, no. You’re joking me.”

Harry rattles the door knob erratically, patting himself down as panic seeps into every gland in his body, because holy fuck, he really hasn’t got his phone on him? And he can’t find it in here. It’s not in _here._

He starts to scramble around every shelf in the darkness, the only light peeking from under the door, tossing towels and getting himself tangled up in silk sheets and biting his cheek, because good grief, he is not going to start bloody crying while locked in a god damn storage unit for clean towels. He has some dignity left.

Why doesn’t he have his phone on him? Oh, my god. Harry doesn’t have his phone. Where is his phone?

“Help!” he yells, frantic, dizzy with it. Because oh, my god, he’s stuck and there’s no one else here. “Excuse me?!”

Louis’ going to think he’s stood him up, isn’t he? What is the time now? He’s going to wait for ages and think Harry’s changed his mind and given Louis his answer with a no-show.

“Is anyone out there?” Harry screams. “I’m in here! I’m stuck! Hello?” He continues to bang on the door, making as much racket as possible and bloody hell, is there no one present on this floor tonight?

Oh, my god. He’s going to have to wait for someone to come upstairs to their floor. That could be hours.

Harry slumps to the bottom of the cupboard, cushioned by a mountain of softness.

The towels are good value for money, he’ll give them that. Soft, fluffy goodness.

He must sit there for a solid fifteen minutes before he realises his phone is beside is bum. But his relief lasts only a second when he sees his battery is dead.

"Oh, shit," he yells, before standing up again and banging on the door some more.

**

Louis is officially concerned. It's been well over an hour since Harry left the stage after telling this drunken wedding reception (or those who were sober enough to notice the music had stopped) that he'd made up the story of himself and Louis having being an item before, Louis sat by himself on the grass, picking it with his fingers like he's in primary school, in between the rose bushes further down the garden, away from the reception, where he told Harry to meet him at seven.

Except it's now almost a quarter past eight. And Louis is worried. 

He saw him dash off somewhere after speaking with Anne and hasn't been back since. (It didn't look like they were arguing, though.) More than a dozen people approached Louis afterwards and apologised for gossiping about him, all laughing it off, several guys giving Louis a too vigorous pat on the back. Mal has merely glared at him and pretty much stayed to his spot at a table housing Beth's older siblings, clutching glass after glass of red, every inch the pathetic loser who didn't get what he wanted, which is god knows what.

He would have thought Anne would have been by to speak with Louis, actually, but to be fair, he did dash off too once it struck the hour in which he's to meet up with Harry, and has basically remained hidden for the last hour, facing away from the party. He feels like he's hiding, waiting for someone to come who just isn't going to show.

Harry is still not here, and he's not answering his bloody phone. And Louis really has to leave soon.

Then the doubt starts to creep up behind him, the part of Louis' brain that's still unsure about Harry's feelings and thinks he's changed his mind. Maybe he's decided that a long-distance romance with Louis for a while is not something he wants after all.

But the other side, the rational part of Louis' brain that knows full well how Harry feels about him, the kind of good person that Harry is, knows those doubts are bullshit.

So just where the hell is the man?

**

After a few more useless minutes of screaming at the top of his lungs, Harry must fall asleep, the evening having caught up with him and feeling particularly emotionally fragile at this turn of events.

Everyone will be downstairs at the reception until the early hours. The only person who’ll have noticed he’s missing is Louis. But he’ll surely have come up to this floor to collect his stuff? Wouldn’t he have heard Harry screaming? Oh, it’s the end of the corridor, pretty far down from his room.

But still, Louis must have heard something. He would have knocked on his door until Harry answeredꟷhis mum must have told him Harry went to get something.

Unless Harry was asleep when he finally came up.

Harry groans into his hands.

He wakes up with a start, having startled himself awake with a loud snore. His phone is gripped in his hand and yep, still dead.

God knows how long he’s been in here now.

He shouts out for help for a few more minutes and then contemplates kicking the door down because he has no other option, does he? Breaking hotel property will have to do, and hope that he can claim an accident or something.

That will likely _not_ work, though, and he can’t exactly pay a hefty bill for property damage right now, can he? But he needs to get out of this bloody closet (hah) really damn soon so he can finally tell Louis he loves him before he has to fly out of the country. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, the gods have finally answered him because then: “Harry? Is that you in there?”

Gemma’s bemused voice makes Harry jump out of his skin, body collapsing with relief. Thank fuck.

“Gemma?”

“Yes, Harry. Uh. Do you want to explain why you’re hiding in a cupboard?” 

“I’m not hiding! I’ve been accidentally shut in here for bloody ages!”

“Yeah, like, nearly two hours, I think. I tried your room after Louis came and found me, asking me where you’d disappeared to. He was really worried.”

“Was?" Harry panics, a sudden yank in his stomach. "Is he still here?” he asks desperately, mouth pressed to the door.

“Uh, I think he’s loading his car to go home to his mum’s and grab his things for the airport?” Gemma says, her tone sympathetic. “I think you might have missed him by now, though, H.”

“No, no! My phone is dead. I couldn’t call him. I can’t call him! Also, could you maybe let me out?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah.”

Luckily, the door opens without any hassle.

“God, what are you like,” Gemma says, shaking her head in disbelief, handing over her own phone. "Only you could this happen to."

“Thank you, thank you,” Harry gasps, using one arm to hug Gemma clumsily to his chest and the other to find Louis’ number in her phone, which thank god she has. He squints, vision blurry from the light as he presses on Louis' name. "When did you get this, anyway?”

“Earlier. Thought if he was going to be part of the family again, I should get his contact details,” she smirks, voice strenuous and struggling to release herself from Harry’s death grip.

“Yeah, well, don’t speak too soon. He might have thought I bottled it," he answers as the dial tone starts, getting slightly panicked again. He really hopes he hasn’t missed him. He has to see him before he gets on that plane.

"How on earth did you manage this?" Gemma wonders. "Good job on finally telling the truth by the way. Everyone is in hysterics. All the champers."

Yeah, Harry bets they are. He'll be hearing about this for the next ten family get-togethers. At least. God help him. He brought this on himself.

"I was ran into a maid and sent her clean sheets flying. My phone got lost in them so I went back to the closet to look for it and got shut in somehow. I don't even know. I shouted bloody murder but maybe she had earphones in or something."

Gemma gives him a dubious look. He ignores her, counting the number of rings with his pulse prickling his throat.

"Ugh, he's not picking up," Harry whines, frustration ebbing away at him, bouncing on the spot with a surge of pent up anxiety. 

Louis still knows he wants him, right?

“Okay, I have to go downstairs to see if I can catch him,” he says, nearly hysterical. “Thank you so much for getting me out,” he rushes out and darts down the corridor in a sprint. “You’re the best sister in the world!”

“Wait, you numpty! I’ll drive you!”

**

The traffic is horrendous and Harry is on the verge of a breakdown as the time approaches twenty to ten. He cannot believe this is what the night has turned into. He'll have a good laugh afterwards, as long as it doesn't go completely pear-shaped, forcing Harry to become a recluse.

But it won't. Louis must love him, too. And if he doesn't, well, Harry's got Elvis on his side. Yeah, he almost forgot the song that played the night Harry truly realised he didn't want to live without his boy.

It might be cheesy as fuck, but if it wins Louis over, he's going to frame it above his bed and never take it down.

Finally, Gemma pulls into the drop-off bay.

"Okay, good luck. Go get him, bro," she squeaks excitedly.

Harry gives her a brief look, but then shakes his head. "You might have saved my life. I owe you, Gem." He kisses her head. "Louis!” he’s calling like a madman before he’s even out of Gemma’s car.

The sun is staring to set, an orange sky breaking out to peek through the clouds. Harry scans around the place, and sees him. Well, so much for thinking he'd have to wait a bit by the entrance for him. Louis’ halfway past it already, dragging his suitcase and bag with him across the shiny white floor of the airport. 

Harry almost trips over another suitcase in his mad dash to get to Louis through the swarm of people around, half-feverish that he’s actually living out every fantasy he’s had from watching this exact scenario about five hundred times in movies, and half-absolutely terrified that Louis has already made up his mind about them, even despite what he said yesterday, and is going to send him away with a rueful smile and an apology on his lips and a lukewarm promise that they’ll stay friends this time instead, a frown on his face.

His heart is pounding so violently, it feels like it’s about to dig its way out of his windpipe.

“Louis!” he calls again, louder. A few heads turn to look at him.

Louis whips around at the sound of his name, his eyes widening. “Harry, what are youꟷ”

“I got locked in a linen cupboard,” Harry laments. “I’m so sorry I missed you. It took me over two hours to get out of there. My phone was dead and at first I thought I lost it because I bumped into a maid and my phone got lost in the sheets and then I got locked in and yeah."

Louis stares at him, eyes wide.

“I know, I know! It sounds so completely ridiculous but it’s the truth, I swear,” Harry grimaces, chuckling nervously.

“Oh, no I believe it,” Louis replies, huffing out a laugh. “I just thought thatꟷ”

“I’d changed my mind?”

Louis stays quiet, shrugging weakly. “No. Not exactly. Iꟷ I don’t really know what I thought.” He trainer squeaks against the floor as he fidgets.

“I haven’t, though.” Harry steps towards him, closer. He reaches out for his hand, fingertips grazing his, waiting for Louis to decide if he wants to take them. “I haven’t changed my mind, Lou. I would have been there if I hadn’t got stuck in that fucking cupboard.”

Louis huffs another soft laugh. His eyes are uncertain, though. And no. Harry can’t have that.

“See, Lou, the thing isꟷ”

A deafening screech from a child with their arms around their mother’s legs startles Harry briefly out of his frenzied thoughts. Not quite the soundtrack he was hoping for. He feels dizzy and not the good kind, feels delicately on the edge of composure, anxiety creeping in behind his eyes.

Why are declarations of love so nerve-wracking?

Oh, my god. He might just faint. His legs are wobbly. He’s barely standing upright.

He wrings his hands together, mindlessly, obsessively, facing growing hot, hotter. God, he's probably flaming red.

Calm down, Harry.

_He’s not going to reject you. You know he feels the same._

And then Louis’s facing him fully, suitcase by his feet, one hand wrapped around the strap of his carry on (which is extremely large for one, Harry absently notes) and his other is grabbing for Harry’s hand, fingers soft and gentle and steadying enough for Harry to get a grip and take a breath.

"Harry?"

“I love you,” Harry blurts out.

Louis freezes, his face covered in brief shock.

Harry gulps hard. Oh, god. He’s doing this.

“I’m in love with you, and I’ve always been. And what’s more isꟷ Wellꟷ” Harry takes another step closer to Louis’ frozen form, absently taking in the oversized grey hoodie he’s wearing, the fluffiness of his hair, still loosely gripping onto Louis’ now limp fingers. “Lou, I think I could love you better than anyone else ever could,” he barrels on, floundering and acutely aware that people in this busy airport are staring at the spectacle Harry is putting on as they pass by, heavy luggage and screaming children in tow.

“Andꟷ God, and I know you’re going to be pretty unavailable a lot of the time for the next few weeks, but. I can deal with that. That's my answer. I want everything. I know we can deal with a bit of distance. I want to be with you. I’ll speak to you however we can, and whenever you have a sec. I just need to talk to you as much as possible. Like, not in a possessive way, of course not. I know I’m not entitled to your time, or anything,” he insists, cheeks reddening. Fuck, he is so bad at this. “Shit. I’m. What I’m trying to say is: I want to make this work with you. I don’t care about the distance that we’ll have to cope with sometimes. Because I love you. And if we both love each other, if we both put the effort in to keep our relationship alive and healthy and committed. Well, it’ll be fine, right? We’ll be alright. We’ll always be alright, you and me. It's taken us this long, and Lou, I know you’re it for me. It hasn't gone away. I know it’s supposed to be us. And I guess I’m just really, really hoping you feel the same about me?” he smiles timidly, and he's so fucking terrified.

The seconds tick by. Louis is standing in front of him, just staring, motionless, mouth slightly open. And Harry’s heart is still thudding so incredibly fast and hard inside his chest, and his hands are slightly trembling with adrenaline and fear and fuck, is Louis going to say something?

Anything?

“Louis?"

Harry tries to take in even breaths as he moves closer, never breaking Louis’ gaze, feeling sweaty and gross and very unfit right now.

“Okay, look, Lou, you’re gonna have to say something really soon because my mind is doing morbid cartwheels right now and I am mere moments away from collapsing.”

And then Louis’ laughing. Big, hearty, crinkly-eyed laughter.

He’s _laughing._

“What’s so funny? I’m trying to tell you something important and sincere, Lou,” Harry frowns, about to lose his shit and cry his fucking eyes out if Louis keeps on cackling like a maniac. People are staring.

“Oh, god. Just. Come 'ere.” Louis suddenly pulls Harry’s face towards him by the neck, grasp firm and solid.

And he kisses him. Just like that, in the entryway of the airport where people are bumping into their shoulders and tutting and muttering irate comments as they pass. And Harry doesn't care one fucking bit when Louis’ tongue is immediately in his mouth, kissing him with his whole body thrown into it, warm and insistent and god, so bloody wonderfully moving over his, sending Harry into a whirlwind of weightless bliss.

Harry moans a tiny bit and he breaks off, gasping and holding onto Louis’ waist with everything he has. “Hang on, what’s happening?”

“Well, I have your answer now, don’t I? A bit late, mind." He grins. "Unless you’re moments away from freaking out again over when exactly we’re seeing each other next?”

“I didn’t freak out,” he protests.

“You got into a state as soon as I told you about my job, Harry,” he smirks, titling his head.

“No! I was… Okay, I admit I was hesitant about starting something up if you’reꟷnot going to be in the country for a bit. But that’s ridiculous. Right? I can wait. I can, and also, it won’t be for long. I survived years without you and did okay on my own. I know I like to wax on the dramatics about what a loser I was, but I did okay. I found out more about myself. What I want. What I like. What I… love.” It’s on that word that Harry’s voice wavers.

Louis squeezes his hand. “I know it might be daunting at first, but I’ll call you all the time, whenever I have it,” he smiles, eyes shiny and his voice a tad husky. “And then I’ll be straight back in London and you can come down and see me whenever you want, or I’ll come to you and if you’re working, I’ll stay and see you in the evenings and we’ll work something out, Harry. If we both want it?”

Harry grins. “Actually, um. About that. I might have a job now? I think. God. I really do need to get back to them or I’ve it screwed up already,” he cringes, guilt and anxiety momentarily crippling him.

“A job?” Louis asks, attention piqued. "Yeah?"

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “It’s writing articles for fashion trends, you know. Online, mostly. And their offices... are in London." Louis' brows lift. "So. I’ll kind of be needing to move there. Permanently. Hopefully. For the time being, anyway,” he chuckles, feet doing their own thing, because holy shit, this is wreaking havoc on his nerves.

“Harry.” Louis pauses, a beautiful smile spreading over his face and setting his features, those blue eyes of his, alight. “Oh, my god. That’s… that’s so great!"

“I mean, I still have to have the interview, but I read the email again earlier and it sounds like I pretty much have it as long as I don’t screw up the meeting them bit.”

“That would work out pretty damn well if you get it, right?” Louis smirks, a hint of shyness in the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, it would,” Harry says softly.

And just like that, Louis’ face fills with the widest grin that Harry’s seen on Louis for a very long time, so loose, so obviously _happy._

Harry’s chest pounds. “Hey. You didn’t answer me?”

“What?”

“Lou,” he pouts.

Louis laughs again.

“I love you, Harry Styles. And I have done for a very long time now."

Harry beams, eyes filling up at a rapid rate and he quickly looks at the ground, cheeks pink and tummy going wild with happiness and euphoria and Louis’ suddenly hauling Harry back to his chest by the shoulders, crashing their lips together again.

Harry’s open mouth melts into his, jaw and hands shaking alike as he places his hands either side of Louis’ face, kissing him back in earnest, pouring everything he feels for Louis into this kiss, clutching onto him as though his knees are going to buckle at any second.

Because he’sꟷ are they?

He pulls back, if very reluctantly, smiling when Louis follows him with his lips still poised, eyes closed.

“Does this mean we’re together now?” Harry breathes. “I’m your boyfriend, right?”

“Yes, yes! A hundred times yes!” Louis shouts, giggling when Harry clamps his hand over his mouth, ducking at the multiple heads that are turned their way. He’s all crinkly-eyed and _happy_ and settled in Harry's arms and he loves him more than anything and Louis loves him back.

Louis loves him _back._

_Finally._

“I didn’t propose, Lou,” he giggles too.

“Yet,” Louis winks.

"Oh, actually, I have something for you!" Harry only just remembers the record. He must have dropped it when he got to Louis. He bends down to retrieve the seven inch vinyl, the sleeve a little bent from all the faffing about and racing to get here on time.

“What’s this?” Louis asks, eyes flitting all over the cover. He can see what it is and who it’s by. And he looks a mixture of bewildered, touched and overwhelmed. He seems almost about to crumple.

“I heard it on the radio. That night your car broke down. Do you remember?” Harry murmurs, slipping the record into Louis’ hands, who holds it delicately atop his fingertips.

“I remember the night, yeah,” Louis whispers, eyes flitting next to him as he moves slightly out of the way, dragging his bag with him. Harry follows, taking his suitcase further to the side of the doors.

“I, uh. I planned to give it you that Valentines’ Day of our last year?”

Louis eyes flick up, widening. “That one you had in your room?”

Harry frowns slightly.

“I saw it. That night, at the foot of your bed. You were asleep, and you hadn’t asked me to join you. It was the first time that you hadn't and then, you know.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry's chest twists.

“This was meant for me?”

Harry nods, smiling, albeit sadly. “Yeah. I was supposed to be asking you out that night. But you know how the rest turned out,” he laughs.

Louis shakes his head. “Elvis Presley," he says quietly. "Harry, you are the sappiest person I have ever met in my life. And I love you so much, darling.”

God. _Darling._

Harry could die right here.

“I love you, too.”

“Well, thank fuck for that.”

They burst out laughing and Harry falls into him, almost toppling Louis over, making them laugh harder. And they stand there, content and giddy as the busy crowd moves around them, making way for more arrivals, children’s delighted and tired squeals echoing through the airport. Car horns beep outside, the indistinct sound of the radio playing a relaxing, summer beat as the sun nearly fully sets, leaving an array of dimmed, amber and mauve colours that blend together behind them, seeping through the huge windows, Harry and Louis’ silhouettes joined, and a timeless love song cushioned between their knees.

**

**THREE YEARS LATER**

Lights flash incessantly as Harry sits impatiently in his spot in front row, a backstage pass hanging around his neck, along with the delicate silver chain Louis bought him with his ring hooked on it. Harry fiddles with the silver band, smoothing the metal between the pads of his thumb and middle finger (which he not-so-subtly shot at Mal with great satisfaction as he took a seat in the third row back on the opposite side of the room) as he holds his tablet in his other hand, poised to start typing notes once the show starts.

Though, in all honestly, the only place Harry’s eyes are going to be are firmly glued to his fiancé.

(His deadline isn't until tomorrow morning, anyway.)

His thighs are like jelly, bouncing with nervous energy, proud as punch to be sitting here and witnessing Louis’ debut on the runway in bloody Paris, the fashion capital of the world, no less, modelling a few of his own designs.

Harry could bite his whole fist, he’s that overwhelmingly excited for him, clad in a couple of pieces from Louis’ range and blossoming new brand label, British Rogue. His sparkly boots are his favourite.

It’s another few minutes and then the lights are dimmed, a cluster of even brighter spotlights switching on at once, Dua Lipa’s latest hit blaring out of the speakers at the sides of the stage.

He’s on next.

Harry can’t stop smiling.

And out Louis comes.

A serious, sultry expression on his face, smeared with peach glitter that's highlighting his sharp cheekbones brilliantly, a smattering of stubble lining his jaw.

And the ensemble.

A combination of seventies-inspired, flared, high-rise yellow and blue striped trousers, a fitted baby pink crop top, sleeves torn at the hems, showing off his gloriously golden tanned skin, shimmering in glossy silver body spray, with the words BABY HONEY printed in a cursive white font. Harry preens.

His feet are clad in a pair of heeled white sneakers and a leopard print headband holds Louis’ longer hair back, fringe curling to the side and ends poking out around his ears in artful disarray.

He looks fucking amazing and Harry is so proud he could burst apart, has to forcefully resist the urge to woop and cheer his head off, watching with rapt attention as Louis makes his way down the runway, effortlessly strutting and rocking his hips slightly to the music, cameras flashing constantly, striking a poised pose with a purposely lazy hand on his hip when he gets to the very end of the platform, just feet away from where Harry sits, legs crossed and beaming with wide eyes.

Louis makes eye contact and winks at him once, so briefly most people probably missed it, but the tiny smirk in his supposed to be serious face gives him away.

Harry feigns fainting, Louis’ sister, Lottie and a few of Louis’ friends quietly laughing at Harry’s silly but supportive display of his fiancé’s debut runway appearance, another line of men following Louis down the stage.

Louis makes his way back, turning around and walking the way he came, music still blaring as the rest of the show continues.

After the show, Harry takes as many different photos of Louis in his outfits as possible, (in between hot kisses, of course) most of which are definitely not suitable for the readers of his column.

No, definitely not.

Breathtaking as Louis is, some shots are really meant for Harry's eyes only, and yeah, he's _very_ okay with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading if you made it to the end :D and feedback is so appreciated! (Even if I read it from behind my hands)

**Author's Note:**

> here's the [tumblr](http://curlsandlashes.tumblr.com/post/164523349711/sun-means-the-skyll-be-blue-by-pearlydewdrops) post :) xx


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